


Thieves Among Us

by royallieu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Inspired by Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royallieu/pseuds/royallieu
Summary: Let Jon have his armies and his devoted wildlings and the love of their people, she thinks. Let him have his dragon queen. She’s in possession of a secret, tragic as it may be, but at least it’s entirely her own. For Sansa, that’s more than enough. It has to be.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’ll attend the banquet, won’t you?” Lady Karstark asks, as the subtlety is brought out and presented before the King in the North and the Queen of the South—a sugary rendition of a dragon and a direwolf, likely the work of a talented southron pastry master that had tailed along with everyone else in the Northern March. With so many bodies in and around Winterfell nowadays, Sansa can’t even imagine if there’s anybody left in King’s Landing, though she knows that’s not true. Still, she imagines how eerie it is, the idea of the royal capital completely devoid of people. The silence alone would be frightening, she thinks, when she can still remember the claustrophobic roar of voices and sounds that had echoed in between the tight streets she had ran through, desperate to escape the men who had been all too eager to get a piece of the nobility they so detested.    

It feels like an eternity since she had last been in King’s Landing, just as it feels like an eternity since she had last sat at the high table, with Jon on her right. She’d been permitted to sit next to the King only because she had been the highest ranking noble after him, but no longer does she fill that criterion. Instead, it is Daenerys Targaryen who sits beside Jon now, a figure of equal importance, of equal might. Sansa knows all too well the looks that some of the other lords cast her, and they all suggest the same thing: _you want to be her, don’t you?_ they say— _wouldn’t you want to be by his side?_

They’re all wrong, though. She’ll be damned if she has to sit next to Jon, knowing what she knows. Contrary to the beliefs of her peers, Sansa is perfectly content with her seat at one of the long trestles set up along the perimeter of the great hall, knowing she’s at liberty to watch the spectacle at the high table, just like everyone else. At least here, her heart can break all over again without hundreds of eyes staring back at her. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she takes small pleasure knowing that the King and Queen do not have the same luxury as she, especially Jon; whatever pains he might go through, he’ll never be allowed to express them, not while he’s the center of attention.   

As the Lady of Winterfell, her right to the entrance of the banquet, that small, private gathering that the King and Queen partake in after a grand feast, is without question. The problem is that she’s had quite enough of them, these days; she sees Jon and Daenerys too often during their council meetings, and it’s taxing enough, seeing as she has to keep her armor in place for longer than she prefers.

Tonight’s feast had been held to mark the King and Queen’s brief departure for the Gift, where Jon seeks to establish a further line of defense against those beyond the Wall. Their absence relieves her, but not the implications of their mission. After all, what hope can there be if the Night King and his legion of White Walkers somehow penetrate the Wall? What possible defense can there be after, when, supposedly, they are up against a population as large as that of the Seven Kingdoms?

Sansa sets these fears aside for later. In the privacy of her bedchamber, perhaps, she will let her worries and her sorrows loose, as she is usually wont to do beneath the furs, though in truth she’s not in the mood to retire just yet. Still, Lady Karstark is watching her expectantly, and Sansa knows that there are some social obligations she needs to fulfill.

The problem right now is that she just doesn’t care.

“I don’t think I will, my lady. It’s been a rather challenging day, to be honest, and I think it’ll do me good to retreat for the night. It’ll be quite the early rising tomorrow.”

Lady Karstark nods. “You’re right about that. Quite a time we live in, don’t you think? How we’re all gathered here, to face these legends—these _beings_ , really, that have always been the stuff of cautionary tales. It certainly leaves pause for thought. Sometimes I find myself asking whether things would be this way if I had heeded those tales, or whether we’ve always been destined for this.”

Sansa opens her mouth to respond when everyone at the long trestle rises suddenly, and she turns her head to look back at the high table while she stands as well. The King and Queen are already on their feet, waiting for everyone in the great hall to follow suit. Together they watch over the congregation of people before them, a hodgepodge of nobles and masters and wildlings, all of whom possess different opinions over this threat beyond the Wall.  

As soon as silence ensues, Daenerys Targaryen speaks first.

“We value the company of all who are here tonight,” she says, her voice solid and clear, but still enchanting. “We’re now constantly faced with danger and uncertainty, but moments such as these carry with them the strength to push us forward, to seek hope beyond the darkness.”

There’s a low rumble of noise as hands and pewter cups bang against the trestle in response. Sansa watches Jon, whose head is turned to look at the tiny woman beside him as she continues with the rest of her speech, most of which she doesn’t bother to take further note of.

His face is solemn, as solemn as ever, but there’s a light in his eyes that contrasts with the rest of his face. To her, it speaks of longing, admiration, kinship. She’s certain that it also speaks of love.  

Though she hates to admit it, they’re a magnificent sight to behold when they’re together, which is more often than not. Worse, the language of their bodies is more telling than the words they exchange. Sansa knows that their fingers itch to touch, in that same way she had once experienced; that the heat which radiates off them is familiar in a way only lovers understand. Try as they may, she knows the secret that they hide; then again, so does the rest of the court.

 _Her_ secret, on the other hand, is all hers.

She takes in a shaky breath, reluctant to buckle under the despair and sadness that threatens to erupt since Jon had returned with Daenerys Targaryen at his side. She won’t do it here, at least. Sansa refuses to give her adversaries such pleasure, even when she’s unsure whether she has any to worry about these days; there’s a conflict much greater than control over the Iron Throne, though perhaps she only thinks that because she belongs to the winning side. Of course, her insecurities could also be a product of Littlefinger’s legacy, gone though he is. Some things never leave you, she supposes, no matter how hard she tries discarding them, like a worn-out garment. Baelish’s teachings are, unfortunately one of them; the other, which worries her even more, is her sentiments towards a man whose heart now belongs to another. Sansa isn’t sure anymore if she’ll be able to maintain the façade long enough for her heart to mend itself back into place, especially when Jon is now picking up her evasion tactics more successfully. There are things they need to discuss, just the two of them, but she’s not ready for that, at least not yet. She knows that she’s never had any right to him, and she reminds herself of that on a daily basis; they have never pretended to be anything more than what they are, despite one night of error. She never had a hand on his heart—what matter does it make, now that someone else does? 

An almost deafening cheer from those around her shakes her out of her reverie. Sansa looks towards the queen, who has a beautiful, triumphant smile on her face. She can imagine how easy it is for any man to melt at that, including someone as insulated and conservative as Jon. Daenerys Targaryen is needed here, as much as he is; she inspires people to action, her and her majestic dragons, and Sansa knows that without her, their army would never be as immense as it is. She has the love of her subjects, and it’s that love that has carried so many up north.

Those assembled now wait for Jon to speak, and when he turns his grey eyes back on them, the light she had discerned only a moment ago has disappeared, replaced with wary determination.

“Her Majesty does more justice with her words than I ever will,” he says at last. “And what she says is true. We’re in for a long journey ahead of us, facing an enemy we know so little about, but we all have to remember what we’re fighting for. There are our children that we need to fight for, and our people, our home and our lands. It’s one thing to survive, another thing entirely to live. But we all _deserve_ to, you see, especially after all we’ve been through.”

“Hear, hear!” Someone shouts from the other side of the room, and there’s another excited rumble throughout the great hall.

“We need to remember what we’re fighting for,” Jon repeats, during the last of the noise. “Now is not the time to turn against one another, no matter which corner of the Seven Kingdoms you hail from—whether you’re from Westeros or Essos. Her Majesty and I depart for the Gift tomorrow, but we aren’t taking all of you. Do not forget that the only way we stand a chance is if we stand together. Anything less and we could all face extinction.”

It’s not an ideal way to end a feast, but it hits home the gravity of the situation. While the hum of voices starts up again and conversation resumes, there is no ignoring the fact that the air is heavy with uneasiness.

“Everyone rest while you still can,” the queen commands over the increasing volume. “Whether you’re those coming with the King and I, or whether you remain here, all of you must reserve your strength, whether you wield a sword or not.”

Sansa stares at the queen, lips tightly pursed together. Will Daenerys Targaryen heed her own advice? Will she return to her bedchamber after the banquet to sleep, or will she waste the night away, legs spread wide as Jon pushes into her, in the way she had once been familiar with? And when she does finally succumb to exhaustion, will he wrap her in his arms and whisper sweet nothings into her hair, in that way she never knew, but wish she had?

Her head heavy with thoughts and images she now wishes she had never toyed with, Sansa glances absentmindedly at Jon, only to realize a beat later that he’s looking straight at her. His face is somber, jaw line passive, but in the end she cannot read the thoughts behind any of it. She had once found it so easy to understand him, the nuances in his expressions—that minute lift in one eyebrow, the curl in his lower lip, the strength of his shoulders; she remembers them well, but not their stories. That strange glint that had danced in his eyes while he had watched the queen remains absent, and it only reminds her of her own misstep, of the fact that she had held on to some useless hope, a belief that perhaps he had loved her as much as she had loved him. She still does, is the sad thing; even while he’s gone and broken her heart, destroyed a future that once was, Sansa still loves him, though he’s longed slipped through her first fingers. Perhaps she never had any grip on him in the first place.

Oh, what a fool she can be sometimes.

Sansa turns her head away quickly to look elsewhere, determined to keep her emotions in check. She finds herself looking at the back of Lady Karstark’s head, her long, red hair as intricately braided as her own. For a moment she’s thinks it could be, until the woman in question turns around. It’s a face entirely different than hers, softer in certain areas than she’s accustomed to, but striking nonetheless.

“Will you obey Her Majesty’s orders and retire? Or have you changed your mind? Do say you have, Lady Stark.”

She smiles softly at her dinner companion. “I think I’ll retire now. Please give the King and Queen my regards, though I doubt they’ll take any notice of my absence.”

“Oh, but I’m sure a few courtiers will,” Lady Karstark teases, winking at her.

“I’m a rather poor sport when I’m tired, my lady. I’ll end up losing what few admirers I might have, if I follow you in there.”

When the last of their conversation comes to an end, Sansa quietly slips out of the great hall after bidding Lady Karstark a good night, though it’s only after she’s positive that Jon and Daenerys have left for the banquet. She’s still not sure what to make of Jon, but she wonders if there’s anything to make out in the first place. Maybe she’s clinging to whatever she can, when she ought to know better. The thought leaves her feeling weak.

By the time she arrives at her bedchamber, Sansa is thoroughly convinced that she has no desire to retire just yet. Instead, a strong urge to wander takes over, especially outside. It’s dark, and the weather is frigid, but she’s not tired, despite what she had said to Lady Karstark. It’s not as if she’s been sleeping all that well, anyway; the night tends to stretch on for what seems like an eternity as she tosses and turns, wide awake from the curiosity that’s been eating her since Jon had returned with Daenerys Targaryen riding at his side. It’s none of her business what transpires behind the closed door of Jon’s bedchamber, but her mind refuses to relent; a flurry of images of possibilities constantly dance about, some more explicit than the rest.

She’s grateful that the tears only spill at night, when she’s alone. They’re gone by the morn, dried up on her face, her pillow. There’s enough to deal with during the day as it is—another thing she’s grateful for.

Yes, she thinks, pushing the door of her chamber open to retrieve her warmest cloak. Things could be much worse. A broken heart does not mean she’s entirely broken. A little worse for wear, perhaps, but nobody’s really whole nowadays, after all that’s happened, with all that’s to come.

At first Sansa doesn’t care where her feet take her, taking small pleasure in the idea of walking for the sake of walking. Still, she mindfully avoids the main courtyard, knowing that it will be dense with bodies and talk, even at this time of night. Instead, she let’s herself get lost in deserted alleyways and quiet nooks, these lonely corners that she had never given much thought to. Such spaces are not likely to have any tales to whisper, she reflects, nor do they belong in the realm of anyone’s memories; they are prone to being forgotten, abandoned. When her time comes, when it’s time for her own burial, will she be as forgotten as these decrepit spots, never to be visited again?

It dawns on her just how far she’s made off while she looks at the bottom of the broken tower. Sansa tilts her head up towards it, trying to see if she can make out some of the windows and other details that exist at the top, but she fails. The structure belongs with those crevices she’d lamented upon earlier, forgotten from damage and disuse, though not invisible from sight. There had once been talk of refurbishing the tower for wartime uses, but the amount of time required to remove the rubble and rebuild the roof was deemed too much, so that in the end, the idea had been abandoned. Sansa is sure that she must have happened upon the tower at some point of her life when she was younger, but there is no specific memory she can associate it with, save for that time when Bran had been found nearby at the bottom of the First Keep. Even then the tower was but a minor character in a dire story about her brother, spoken about but never seen.

She gasps in surprise when a strange noise echoes from somewhere on the other side of the tower, sharp and alarming. She takes a cautious step back, concern and curiosity bubbling within her, her mind active with possibilities. At first she’s convinced that there’s an animal nearby, a rodent perhaps, stashing away its scavenged goods. When another sound drifts towards her again, her confidence wavers.

Still possessing more than half a mind, Sansa turns back without a second thought—completely forgetting about the low branch she had dodged earlier. It catches onto her hair, nearly startling her out of her wits, causing her to drop her lantern; it collides against the ground with an audible clang. Heart beating wildly against her chest, her breathing fast and loud, she remains frozen, desperate to calm herself. How senseless of her to be nearly frightened to death by a stray branch, she chides herself, trying to untangle the coiled locks from the branch as quickly as she can. Only the moon acts as a light, now that her lantern’s extinguished.   

The sound of footsteps sparks a new wave of fear within her, as threatening as the deafening screech of the queen’s dragons in this silent, forsaken corner of the castle. She finally gets her hair free from the branch and is ready to make a dash towards the Great Keep when someone calls her name.

“Sansa?”

She doesn’t know who calls her, but she recognizes the voice, and that’s enough to assuage most, if not all, of her fears. It’s familiar, not entirely so, but she senses, perhaps through memory and instinct, that whomever the voice belongs to, it’s someone who wouldn’t hurt her.

When she looks over her shoulder tentatively, the man standing behind her nearly makes her double over in relief.

“Theon?”

It is. The lantern he holds in front of him casts a warm glow over his face, bringing his features into sharp focus. Perhaps in a different frame of mind she wouldn’t have been so attentive to his face, but here, before the broken tower, it’s as if she’s seen that face a thousand times, what with the angular jaw and crooked mouth. That tethered look of fright he had had once is no longer as prominent as it had been, when she’d first seen him again, but remnants of it still skirt along the edges of his eyes, in the tightness of his face.

“Theon,” she says again, this time with more conviction. He’s watching her uneasily, as if she might pounce; it’s almost comical, that he might believe that she can do him any real physical harm. “What—what are you doing here?”

She realizes only after that he’s perfectly entitled to ask her the same thing, but he doesn’t.

“I’m taking shelter,” he responds, his voice tired. “I sleep here,” he adds, as if that clarifies everything, when in fact it only confuses her even more.

Sansa frowns. “What do you mean? You’ve a room in the Great Keep itself—I’m sure I had my steward assign one.”  

Theon shakes his head. “I don’t deserve a place there,” he explains, looking at the ground in front of her. “I don’t belong there. I don’t belong at Winterfell.”

“It was your home once,” she points out.

“Not anymore,” he counters, with another shake of his head. The light from his lantern dances in his eyes; there’s a haunted look in them that, for some reason, reminds her of own loneliness. “I acted cruelly behind these walls. And now they scream at me, most of them—they tell me get out, to leave. There’ll be no rest for me, because of it.”

She stares at him. Theon had been cruel. He’d been stupid, and short-sighted, and he’d paid dearly for it. She doesn’t know how long his retribution will last; it could be forever, she thinks, if the fatigue in his voice, his face, is any indication. He might end up chasing redemption until the end of his days. Sansa wonders if even death will bring him the peace he badly desires.  

“It’s frigid out here,” she says. “How are you getting by?”

Theon says nothing at first, a thoughtful look in his face.

“I can show you.”

He turns around and takes a few steps forward, as if he’s giving her the opportunity to refuse, to turn back. But as soon as she retrieves her lantern from the ground she follows him, walking over the prints his feet had made in the light snow.

She never knew that there was a roofed enclosure attached to the tower, extending beyond it like an odd, misshaped tumor. It’s entirely easy to miss, considering the almost mountainous pile of rubble leaning against it.

“Is this where you’re taking shelter?”

He nods wordlessly.

Something occurs to her. “Where’s the entrance?” She asks, frowning.

Theon moves towards the enclosure before lowering himself onto his knees. She watches with a frown on her face as he pulls aside what looks like a wooden plank to reveal the entrance, a large puncture at the bottom. It’s a crawl space, she realizes; instantly she’s reminded of those caverns once made out of Old Nan’s linen, strewn across chairs and drawers, and the only way to get in was on your hands and knees. Sansa has always wanted to be a lady for as long as she can remember, but even that did not surpass the promise that lay inside those shabbily manufactured forts, which sometimes played the role of the castle she imagined overseeing. 

As he waits patiently, Sansa realizes that Theon wants her to enter first. Her eyes oscillate between the man kneeling before her and the botched entrance of the enclosure, all while the oddness of their situation dawns on her. There had been no interaction between them since he had returned to Winterfell, along with the rest of the party from the south, although the news that he was with them had been quite the surprise; she would have thought that he would have wanted to stay put up in the Iron Islands, after his sister’s victory against their uncle, learning the ropes of the kingdom’s newfound independence. Surely Theon must’ve known that he wouldn’t be welcomed in the north, after all that he’d committed. Then again, she thinks, lowering herself onto her knees to get through the crawl space, perhaps his reappearance here is a sign of his bravery, after all; not many would return to a place knowing that they could likely be given to the dogs.

The inside of the enclosure is passable in its size, though signs of its age and neglect are prominent. It’s devoid of any furniture, and the only things to take note of are those that are Theon’s. A fraction of the hard stone floor is covered with a thin sheet, with a wrinkled and well-worn piece of fur crumpled above it. A weak flame, the only source of heat available, burns from a small brazier across the room, illuminating what few belongings Theon has with him: a chipped goblet, a closed satchel. It’s meager, all of it.

If her heart had still been in tact, Sansa suspects that it would break at this picture.

Sansa turns her head to look at Theon, who stands beside her, still like water. He studies the scene of his makeshift shelter, and she wonders if he sees what she sees: a life of penance, as sparse as a snowy field.

“These walls—they say nothing to you? Do they keep quiet?”

He looks at her, his eyes listless. “Enough for me to sleep a little.”

Sansa sighs quietly in response, turning back to look at the space before her again. Had she been forced to dwell in this enclosure, she’d probably find a tapestry to hang over the bare wall across from her, something colorful to break the monotony of greys and browns, of stone and wood. Something with an exciting subject, like a scene from one of the tales they’d heard of when they were children—a romantic one, instead of those about battles and violence. There’s enough of that beyond these walls already, and someone like Theon needs to forget, or and least be distracted.

“Can I stay here, just a little while?” She asks, even before she thinks it through completely. She’s wandered far from her bedchamber, but she still has no desire to go back. Like Theon, she’s cursed with insomnia, her mind an orchestra of thoughts and images, of longing and pity. She’ll only spend the night wondering whether Jon has stayed put in his rooms, or whether he’s slipped through the doors of Daenerys’s bedchamber instead.

Whatever Theon makes of her request, it shows not in his physical demeanor. To this day Sansa’s not entirely sure she if forgives him for his passiveness, or whether time, and the pain wrought on her by others closer to her, have dulled the reality she had suffered.

“Someone will notice that you’re missing soon,” he reasons.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Has anyone realized where you’ve been spending the nights?”

Theon shakes his head slowly.

“I’m not the Lady of Winterfell,” he says. “Besides, there’s also Jon.”

The mention of his name makes her bristle. “What about Jon?”

“If he finds out you’re missing,” Theon cuts off, before dodging her sharp gaze, “If he finds you here…”

At this, she can’t help but smile—whether it’s in amusement or mortification, she’s not so sure. “Jon has a war to win and a queen in his bed,” she points out. “He’s got much bigger things on his mind now, don’t you think?”

Her comment had been made partly in jest, but Theon remains unconvinced either way. His silence cuts deep, and suddenly her request sounds stupid, desperate. Strange how men grow wary of her exceptionally fast, she thinks, looking away.

“Nevermind. Just forget I asked.”

She’s turning around to head back through the crawl space when he speaks.

“You can stay if you’d like,” he says. “You—you can stay as long as you want.”

Sansa gives him a hard stare. “If you want to be alone, you should just say so,” she scolds, even while her spirits lift a little at his offer.

“That isn’t what I want,” he declares. Had Theon been someone else, if the situation hadn’t been as strange as it is now, she would have pressed him for more. Instead she accepts his curt statement, taking a step further into the room, then another, while Theon slides the heavy wooden board across the entrance.

Without any chairs or stools, she makes do on a spot near the edge of the thin sheet, drawing her knees up against her chest to keep the warmth. The place isn’t so bad, really, though she would have preferred a stronger fire. A tapestry or two as well, she thinks again, if only because they would do wonders for keeping the heat.

Sansa tilts her head upwards when she realizes that Theon remains standing.

“Why won’t you sit?” She asks, eyebrows drawn in.

He says nothing, as if in deliberation. Slowly, though, he lowers himself to sit beside her, crossing his legs. Sansa studies his boots, as worn out as the room itself. With enough material, she thinks, she just might be able to have the shoemaker make him a new pair. With so many mouths to feed and bodies to keep warm, all of their resources are stretched tight, but Sansa knows all too well the feeling of receiving something new in a time of crisis.  

Neither says anything for a long time. She doesn’t mind the silence, is mildly content watching the flames in the brazier as it dances within its confines. If only she could be as intangible and weightless as that flame, rather than heavy with sadness, inflated with longing and grief. How much happier she would be, she thinks, if only she could burn all her emotions away, as easily as a piece of parchment. Sansa cannot, though, and for a moment she thinks about Daenerys, who, unable to perish from fire, is likely unable to melt her own sorrows away, either. She isn’t naive to think someone in her position doesn’t face a mountain of problems, no matter how much love she receives from her subjects, or those of her courtiers. They’re similar in that sense, bound together by more than just their connection to Jon. Sansa isn’t sure whether she’s pleased by this revelation or not.

“What was it like, Theon? When you met her for the first time?”

“Who?”

“The dragon queen.”

The room is quiet while she waits for Theon’s response, the wind outside a high-pitched howl that sends branches and other small minerals crashing to the ground. Maybe he doesn’t plan on answering at all, she thinks, drawing her cloak tighter around her.

“I thought she was small,” her companion says at last. “All the tales of her victories and conquests, all those slaves she liberated—it made me think that she was as tall as a mountain, larger than life. Like your lady knight, in a way; I thought she would look like that. I thought that anyone who could walk through fire without being burnt had to look as intimidating as the gods themselves.”

She nods, though in truth she finds his answer unsatisfying. Theon offers nothing new, nothing original; his perception is contrite, as generic as that of everyone else’s, anyone who has never been a king or queen. It’s human nature, she thinks, to elevate one’s sovereign to unspeakable heights; how else do you convince yourself that they’ve ended up where they are, if not because they’re better than everyone else? How could she explain Daenerys’s rise, even Jon’s, if not because they were something more than human?

“You were there weren’t you, Theon? When Jon met the queen for the first time?” Sansa can hear herself, almost as if she’s outside of her own body; her voice sounds faraway, lethargic.

“Aye, I was.”

There’s a brief surge of light from the brazier before it returns to its usual rhythm.

“Did—did he seem taken by her?”

The silence rings in her ears as she waits, afraid to look at Theon. She’s too scared of what his face might reveal when he speaks.

“It’s hard not to be taken by someone who holds so much power and allure. Even for a man like Jon.”

 _Power and allure_. A seductive combination by any means, even if Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t been as beautiful as she actually is. Or brave, or noble.

Things she’s mostly not, she muses, at least in Jon’s eyes. Not enough to affect him the way his dragon queen does.

Theon carries a valid point, but it pleases her not. She’s perturbed at the idea that Jon would fall for her for all the same reasons that any man would, even while he’s every right to. And really, she should know better; too many times she’s placed all the wrong people on a pedestal, only to have her dreams dashed, like porcelain against a wall. She had hoped, despite her better knowledge, that Jon would be different. Her mistake, she supposes, ignoring the bitterness rising in her throat. The cold is beginning to seep inside her bones, though she knows that it has nothing to do with the frigid temperature.

“I wonder how it happened,” she muses, leaning her chin on top of her crossed arms, ignoring the shatter that can only be her heart. “How did it begin? Did she initiate it? Or did he?”

She’s giving voice to the thoughts that have been eating her for longer than she cares to remember. Why she’s unearthing them here, before Theon, before this man she’s never given much thought to, is beyond her. Perhaps she’s lonelier than she likes to admit, a little desperate to connect with someone. She’s been hurt and abused, but she thinks that this is the first time she’s ached the way she does, from some fool’s love that had never really been, and will never be. It’s the one thing she forgets about—not that the songs aren’t real, but that they end eventually. Every tune has a finish, and it seems as if hers will always be a sad one.

“Perhaps it was neither,” Theon says beside her. “It could have simply happened. Just like that.”

He could very well be right, but the answer doesn’t satisfy her; in fact, it hurts her even more. To subscribe to Theon’s words is to believe that their union had been as natural as day and night. On the other hand, by assuming that one of them had played the first move suggests deliberation on someone’s part, even if it had been Jon. Cause and effect, rather than fate. She’s allowed to dwell in the realm of possibility, that wonderful, inconsistent thing, free to imagine that had he not gone south, things would not be the way they are now. Theon’s suggestion is too final, regardless of the uncertainty that lingers in his tone. She hates it because it leaves no room for questions, is like an iron-tight plot with no loopholes in the narrative.

It’s as if they were meant to be.

Sansa turns her head away to look at the dirty floor beneath her, squeezing her arms tightly. She inhales, her breathing shaky, her grief rising from deep inside her. It’s a fear like no other, gripping and near suffocating in its hold, eating off her bleak thoughts. He’ll leave, just like all the good ones do, and she’ll have no choice but to fight for herself, though who knows what she’ll come out with. It’s her lot in life, she thinks, flames dancing before her eyes. A pretty face and pretty charms, temporary joys for a man in the throes of confusion and loneliness, but forgetful after that. She’ll always have her tricks and her mask, she supposes, but that’s for survival; when will she get the chance to live? Will there ever be a time when Jon’s words finally ring true for her?

Though she stares at the flame dancing in the brazier, her mind is elsewhere, in the deepest recesses of her consciousness, a kind of hollow blackness that not even the night sky can attest to. Here her thoughts and emotions take on a strange, muffled effect: difficult to hear, blurry to view, a mosaic of experiences that converge into one another, as seamless as tears in rain. Yet even in this rendering of her life, one image still remains clear, uncut. It’s Jon, his grey eyes looking back at her with no emotion in them, as empty as the red waste is without water. There’s nothing left for her in Jon, nothing for him to give, because he’s offered it all to someone else.

 “A man’s love does not always coincide with his lust,” Theon suggests, pulling her out of her reflections. “Sometimes, it’s dissonant.”

Sansa makes no response to his comment. The silence between them is vast but intimate at the same time, a sea of quiet uncertainty that steels itself in a strange sort of familiarity, of memories that dwell on the outskirts of her consciousness, never to be realized or fully dwelled on. It does nothing to quell the ache that lingers within her, nor is it in any way ideal, but somehow it provides strange comfort. She doesn’t know what goes on in Theon’s head; Sansa isn’t sure she really wants to. He’s not the boy she had known when she was but a child, that reckless rascal with a cheeky grin and mischief always shining in his eyes. He’ll likely never be that boy again, though, and she knows that, just like she’ll never be that girl she once was.

“Some people are fools, Theon,” she says impulsively. “They’re stupid enough to fall in love with people who don’t love them back, and then they wonder how they got themselves into such a mess in the first place.”

He doesn’t answer, but she’s not waiting for one.

“There are those who never learn. They never realize that nobody will ever stay for them, that nobody ever really wants them, because that’s just their lot in life. Everything’s fragile, like glass, and yet they think the world is made out of steel.”

She scoffs quietly, surprised by the salty taste in her mouth. “Those people—they should know better. But they still hope, anyway. How can I not feel sorry for them?”

Theon says nothing. He doesn’t place a tentative hand on her shoulder in an act of reassurance, nor does he wrap her in his arms the way she had once imagined was the perfect means to placate someone who was sad. In an act of mercy, he simply let’s her be, while the tears fall from her eyes and down her cheeks. Sansa will remember this moment as the sweetest thing he’s ever offered her—the opportunity to lament over the things that could have been, the things that have been lost.

Jon is only one of them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **AN:** I posted this on my Tumblr first, but a few requested that I post this story here, as well. It’s long, and a bit weird, but I’d still love to hear your feedback, if you’re able. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

He had learned early on that he’ll never be able to perfect the art of being aloof, at least before her, but he’s still determined to keep himself as detached from her as best as he’s able. Jon does it to preserve himself. He _needs_ to, if he’s going to do what he’s been tasked with. In the time that they all live in, there just isn’t any moment for possibility—there shouldn’t be. It’s much too dangerous, lingering on that tempting idea of what could have been, or even what was, for that matter. That’s what they always stress, Ser Davos and his advisors; there must be no opportunity for chance, is what they say, not even the slightest gap, because it leaves room for disaster, for chaos. It must be avoided at all costs. And while they all refer to the battle that looms ahead of them, he’s learned that it’s best to apply it to other aspects of his life, too.  

 

For all his determination, he’s barely able to mask the surprise on his face when he finds Sansa at the top of the rampart with her profile facing him, wavy strands of bright red hair dancing lightly in the wind. Such vivid coloring only makes the scene all the more ethereal, despite the banality of it all. Caught off guard the way he is by her presence, without a moment’s warning, there’s no way of him stopping the memories that flash behind his eyes, those images that he’d try to eradicate from his mind forever, only to be met with failure each time. Nails digging almost painfully into his back, her soft skin against his mouth, buried in the crook of her neck—traces of pine, and lemon, and of a thing that is wholly, uniquely hers. And that strange realization, that she’s everything, to the point where she’s nothing, of life ebbing while death flows. Of Tyrion urging him to try the Milk of the Poppy to relieve him of his insomnia, and of him refusing adamantly.  

 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come here this morning,” she points out, watching him at the other end. It’s not the Sansa of his memories, he convinces himself, while he takes slow, hesitant steps towards her. Not with her body as rigid as it is, her beautiful face impassive. Do the same things haunt her, as badly as they haunt him? Has it left her in the same state of disarray as he is?

 

“You wanted to see me? Why didn’t you send for me, then?”

 

There’s a light twinkle in her blue eyes when she speaks, dispelling some of the coldness of her body language. “Perhaps I wanted fate to decide.”

 

“What would you have done if I hadn’t appeared?”

 

Sansa shrugs lightly. “There’s still some privacy to be had up here. That would have been nice as well, I suppose. It’s why _you_ come up here so often, is it not?”

 

Rather than answering, he turns to look at the field located well below the rampart. It’s no longer the empty flatland he remembers, but a grand sea of endless tents and barracks that stretch as far as the eye can manage, a pure assault on the senses for the inexperienced. Despite the early hour, the military campground is already teeming with life; groups of soldiers mill about here and there, some of them half-dressed in their small clothes and maille. Somewhere in the distance, Jon can hear the rhythmic clang of metal against metal, the work of some blacksmith in possession of a powerful arm. Whether the blacksmith is as proficient with a sword remains to be seen; he fears that should things take a turn for the worse, every man capable of holding a sword, and perhaps every woman as well, will be needed. It’s one of many preoccupations, on those mornings when he goes to stand on the spot where Sansa now occupies, at the top of the rampart. He thinks about all the lives to be had, and all the lives that will be lost, no matter how carefully prepared they are. And then he thinks about all the lives that surround _him_ , with just as much solemn gravity, those that circle his personal orbit.  

 

It dawns on him, ever so suddenly, that he’s wearing the cloak that she had made for him just prior to their departure from Castle Black, its thick fur still soft against his rough jaw, despite all the wear and debris that it’s been through. He’d worn it when he departed for the south, as well, and when he had met Dany for the very first time. Jon knows that it’s meaningless, but he can’t stop himself from wondering if she notices, if she remembers. It had been so different back then, before a different force altogether took over them.

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your morning, she says, her quiet tone lined with a hard edge. It makes her apology sound insincere, but what surprises him the most is the fact that he recognizes that tone—the one that is as distant as a flock of birds dotted in the horizon. It’s the one which she uses in the council chambers, when they’re surrounded by various lords and advisors, and it’s the one that makes him realize, to his disappointment, that the woman who stands beside him right now is the Lady of Winterfell. The woman of his memories, of his dreams, is nowhere to be found. It’s like a door slamming loudly in his face, the sound a painful echo in his ears, even while he tries to convince himself otherwise. There is so much that needs to be said, so much that he wants to say, but he won’t. He can’t. It had nearly happened, on some occasions; when he had asked to see her in private, only to revoke his request quickly after.

 

It’s just as well that they’re no longer on speaking terms, he thinks. It makes it easier to bite his tongue, stops him from confessing to her how famished he’s realized he’s become, without her bright smiles or her warm gaze, sometimes as intimate as a caress against his skin. Those little acts had been the sweetest things he’d received from her, are even sweeter than the wine he’s been consuming rather liberally as of late, perhaps as some unconscious attempt to fill the void she had left. He doesn’t broach the thought of touching her, he doesn’t dare, despite all the longing he tries to suppress. When Jon had left her and their home, his feelings had been a complete mess, just as his heart had been in shambles. Standing beside her now, with all that’s happened between them as exposed as it is hidden, he wonders if he’s more broken than ever.

 

“Nevermind,” he says coldly, his tone dismissive enough to match hers. “What have you come here to discuss?”

 

She answers, but not immediately. “I want to talk to you about Theon.”

 

He glances at her, his eyebrows drawn in. “What about him?”

 

“You remember what took place yesterday, don’t you?”

 

“The assault, you mean?”

 

She nods wordlessly in response.

 

Jon does remember yesterday’s event, if it could be called that, though its significance at this very moment evades him. He hadn’t been there—nobody really had, other than the perpetrators themselves, Ser Davos had explained, in an attempt to provide him with some form of a coherent narrative: a group of rowdy, drunken men, several of them northerners, had taken it upon themselves to administer their own brand of retribution on Theon. A traitor and a coward, the attackers had allegedly roared, barely even a man, _he_ imagined them adding, who was better off dead than alive. How far their intentions had been, nobody will ever know, though the damage they’d inflicted on the ironborn had been more than enough. Theon now lies immobile in a bed somewhere in the Great Keep, one more charge that Sam needs to look over, as if the maester doesn’t have enough on his list.

 

“Sam has told me already that he’ll be fine, despite his injuries,” he assures, not knowing what else he can really say. The whole thing had been a terrible matter, he knows; once Ser Davos had finished his tale, he’d been livid. There’s already so much to deal with, he had thought furiously. With all the violence and blood that awaits each and every one of them, had such an act been necessary?

 

“I know that,” she says. “It’s why I hoped to speak to you about it beforehand. As soon as Theon’s able, I want there to be a hearing in his name.”

 

He’s staring at her openly now. “What?”

 

Despite his short utterance, her face hardens noticeably. “You don’t believe that Theon deserves one?” She asks, in a tone that suggests her readiness to argue.

 

“That’s not it,” he says.

 

“Then what is it?”

 

Jon turns his head away to look at the ground on his other side, unable to think straight with her eyes on him.

 

“Why this sudden interest in Theon?” He asks, breaking the dense silence that hangs between them, even while there’s a low hum of sounds coming from the military camp from below. “You hardly expressed concern for him when he made his way back to Winterfell.”

 

He glances at her again, but she’s looking out at the scene beyond the rampart.

 

“This isn’t just about Theon,” she says. “It’s also about an innocent man who’s been wronged within my walls. I’ve a duty towards the well-being of those who seek refuge here, you know, even if they’re not from the north. I’ve given them all my word to protect them, but what good is it if something like this happens?”

 

Her walls, she had insisted, instead of theirs—instead of _ours_. It’s such a minor detail in the grander scheme of her response, one that makes perfect sense, and yet he’s unable to ignore the hurt that wells up as a result, or the bitter taste in his mouth. He feels like he’s been cast out of her world, in that same way he’s been trying to cast her out of his, he reminds himself, but nothing helps to alleviate the sense of backlash he knows he’s wrong to feel. Jon wonders if she had been aware of what she’d said, whether she had been mindful enough of her words to use the ones that could potentially cut deep.

 

Jon can feel her eyes on the side of his face, all while he tries to maintain his composure. “We’ve discussed it, Ser Davos and I,” he finally says, trying to conceal the pain that blossoms inside of him. “We know that Theon’s attackers must be punished, and we know that we can make an example out of them, so that this doesn’t happen again. It won’t do them any good, being northerners; they’ll be treated just as equally.”

 

“A few of the attackers weren’t afraid to talk as soon as they realized they’d been caught,” she points out. “Some were quick to name Lords Cerwyn and Hornwood as the real masterminds behind the assault.”

 

This isn’t news to him. “What are you suggesting?”

 

“Both of them should be held responsible, if they really are to blame for the attack. That means that they ought to face the same punishment as the attackers themselves, but neither have admitted to the crime. They won’t, unless there’s a proper hearing. You know all this as well as I do, Jon.”

 

He starts, just a little, at the bare fact that she had said his name. There’d been nothing to it, empty of affection or warmth, like a broken promise. But it had come from her lips, and the very fact of it still does something to him. He can’t be entirely sure, but he’s convinced that it’s the first time she’s said his name since he’d come home.  

 

“Lord Hornwood is especially popular amongst the soldiers,” he points out, somewhat dully. “Influential, as well. It’d be a poor hearing for Theon, if there’s to be one. His character’s blighted as it is, up here. If we adhere to a hearing, even go as far as to turn it into a trial, it’ll likely be him on the execution block. Everyone will remember what he’s done, Sansa. Who’s going to step up for him?”

 

Jon thinks he’s gotten around to her when another silence descends upon them, as she ponders the validity of his comments.

 

“I will vouch for Theon’s character if nobody else will,” she declares.

 

The words ring in his ears, incessant and all-consuming. When he snaps his head to look at her, he’s mortified.

 

“Why would you choose to _do_ that?” He demands. “  Have you forgotten what he’s done to you? To our family?”

 

The way she lowers her gaze suggests, in his opinion, a show of guilt, of shame, even. But her demeanor does little to soften his grievances; his mind is caught in a storm of thoughts and questions, none of which he can calm. Jon hasn’t an inkling where her newfound sympathy springs from, but it leaves him feeling cold, disoriented. No matter how hard he tries, Jon cannot shake off the feeling that he’s being left in the dark about something.

 

How had this all happened without his notice?

 

“Perhaps I see more in Theon than I ever thought I did,” she confesses. “Perhaps we’re not so different, he and I.”

 

Her confession leaves him unsettled. He can’t explain it, not at the moment, not even in the future, when the words she had spoken fester in his mind, as dangerous as an untreated wound. He’ll find himself constantly dabbling in the implications that had been perceptible in her confession, especially when his mind should be elsewhere.

 

“You’ll make an enemy out of both Lords Cerywn and Hornwood if you publicly take Theon’s side, no matter how innocent he is,” Jon reasons, his expression grave. “They’ll be backed by the rest of the northern lords, as well. You’ll isolate just about everyone.”

 

Sansa scoffs. “You make it sound as if they all adore me. Most of them haven’t forgotten the betrayals I committed while I’d been south, you know. They’re just as wary of me as they are of Daenerys Targaryen—the only different is that she has a trio of dragons to keep them in line. All I have is my name, and half of them think me undeserving of it.”

 

“You have the love of the smallfolk,” he adds, in an attempt to dispel the gravity that’s heavy in her words.

 

“I know. And when I think about them, I think about Theon. I want things set right,” she says. “I won’t let you brush this under the table, no matter how many priorities you may have.”

 

“I’m not brushing this aside,” he argues, as he begins to pace, no longer able to keep still. “I told you already, the attackers will be punished for their actions. And if what they said about Lord Cerwyn and Lord Hornwood are true, than I wouldn’t entirely object to a hearing, if Theon agrees to one—he deserves to be heard, at the least, after what’s been done to him. But I won’t let you vouch for him.”

 

When he glances at her again, her eyes are ablaze with defiance, a reminder of that stubbornness he’s grown accustomed to.

 

“If I want to vouch for Theon’s character, that’s my decision,” she states, her face closed in. “You can’t stop me from doing so.”

 

“Yes, I can,” he counters, taking a step towards her. “I can stop you from doing whatever you choose to do, when I know that harm will come towards you because of it. They’ll all think the worst of you for backing a traitor like Theon, all of the northern lords, maybe even those from south. They won’t believe that you’ll defend the very person who tried to take your brother’s birthrights when he knew that Winterfell was at its weakest.”

 

Her face falls ever so slightly.

 

“They’re your brothers too,” she says softly.

 

Jon inhales sharply as he turns away, ignoring the shock of cold air that courses through his lungs, cursing inwardly for such a slip. Everyone involved had agreed that it was best to keep it a secret, but he’d found it impossible to fall back into those same presumptions he’d lived with all his life, up to that point. They’re all shattered in the pits of his consciousness, irrevocable, and it’d been hopeless, trying to assemble it all back together. And Sansa—his mind had been on her for so long afterwards, of the things they’d longed to say to each other, the acts they’d committed, but could never acknowledge. The line that they’d crossed had no longer been so clear-cut as it had once been, but there had been no time for him to rail at the gods he thought he no longer believed in, just as there had barely been any time to reflect on his relationship with Dany. They exist together, these two women, like two sides to a coin.

 

“Sansa,” he tries, his tone beseeching. “You’d be defacing the memories of all those we’ve lost. Robb and the others, your parents—all of them.”

 

“I wouldn’t be standing here right now if it weren’t for Theon,” she argues, shaking her head slowly. “And if I hadn’t gotten out of Winterfell when I did, you would never have been crowned the King in the North, you know.”

 

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re saying I ought to thank Theon for all that’s befallen me?”

 

A light shake, a deep kiss—he wants to do something to release her from whatever spell she’s currently under. Jon wants to shed light on this darkened patch that’s emerged in his life, as sudden as a sword through his torso, but as he tries to look into her face for answers, he’s left with nothing. Sansa’s body remains frigid, is evident through the layers of fabric she wears.

 

“You certainly would have made it to the south much faster if Theon hadn’t done what he did,” she remarks, her gaze still locked on the scene beyond the rampart. There’s a note of accusation laced in her comment, which in itself is full of implications and bleak possibilities. If Theon hadn’t helped her escape, would she still be alive? Is it possible that Sansa would be standing next to him right now, if not for the things that had unraveled?

 

“Edd told me that you wanted to go south, before I arrived,” she explains, bringing him out of his dark thoughts. “If I had known how badly you wanted to go, I probably would’ve let you be.”

 

“It was made in jest,” he cuts in hurriedly, before she can elaborate any rather. “Sansa, I would never have left you, no matter what I wanted.”

 

He speaks in earnest, but Jon realizes too late that his words only throw his more recent actions into sharp relief, unearthing the hypocrisy he’s committed. It’s a crime he’s been committing rather bountifully as of late, he knows, but never so clearly as he does now, as he watches for any sign of reaction on her face. Sansa has always been impossible to read, even when they had been children, but now the challenge leaves him frustrated and oddly bereft. He’s reminded of the feast held before he had left for the Gift, himself and Dany, and of that look she’d had on her face when she had caught him watching her. Unmoving and inscrutable, he remembers, with just a tinge of sadness, her eyes still and melancholy. He hadn’t failed to notice how often her eyes had been on Dany, because he’d spent just as much time watching _her_ , despite his own determination to do otherwise.

 

“Sansa, don’t do this. It’s not worth the trouble you’ll face afterwards, believe me.” He thinks the words may sound hollow in her ears, considering his recent treatment towards her, but he needs to say them anyway. They can hardly look at each other directly, their profile the only view each is willing to offer, but Jon watches her openly now, his tired eyes taking in all those details he’s never quite been able to forget, even when he’d found warmth and solace in the arms of another.

 

When she finally faces him, her expression is deathly still.  

 

“If you won’t let me vouch for Theon, I’ll ask the Queen for her permission, instead. They say she can be more lenient than you, sometimes.”

 

It’s an odd sort of threat, if it could even be called that, but it cuts deep. A bold surge of anger erupts within, replacing the thoughtful melancholy he’d experienced only moments ago, like a flame that bellows when wine is sprayed into it.

 

“Dany isn’t your sovereign,” he hisses, glaring at her. “I am. You’re a subject of the north—you follow _my_ orders, should I ever give any to you.”

 

Fascination blooms on her face, like blood on a piece of white fabric.

 

“That’s what you call her in private, isn’t it? Dany?”

 

His heart stops. The silence that follows is as deafening as the heavy crash of waves against a wall of jagged rocks, even while their secrets float around them just as audibly.

 

“I think it’s rather sweet, actually,” she muses, but her voice is distant, as faraway as the tents that hover beyond the horizon, grey and barely visible to the naked eye. He’s losing her, he thinks desperately, even while he never had her to begin with. _It isn’t what you think_ , he wants to say, except that it _is_. He isn’t able to utter the words for that very reason, knowing how steeped they are in lies and falsities. Sansa is absolutely right: Dany is what he calls her in private. It’s been the only name Jon calls her by, since that night when they’d hidden within the confines of her ship as they made for King’s Landing, a lonely night no longer made lonely. It’s not an original name by any means, but he’d been secretly delighted when he had first come across it, that endearing nickname that held none of the royal trappings her full name had, in the same way that his own did not. It’s the name that he had whispered into her ear, before he spilled inside of her. It’s the only name that Jon has for her, even when she’s known by so many others, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

It’s the look on Sansa’s face that nearly changes his mind. She’s still as frigid as ever, but something in the hardness that edges around her eyes and mouth speaks of the pain she feels, and it leaves him overwhelmed with guilt. She doesn’t say it aloud, but the words encroached in the silence beneath those that had been spoken say it all: she knows. No matter how quiet he’d been, no matter that they had left their liaison in King’s Landing, the secret had somehow come undone.

 

“Sansa,” he tries, but he’s unable to string together anything coherent that might sway her thoughts elsewhere. Jon wants to convince himself that they had never been lovers, not in that conventional sense, at least, so that never had he made any promise to be faithful to her, because he had never felt obligated to. He wants to tell himself that he had never betrayed her, but he can’t shake off the growing suspicion that he has.

 

“Nevermind,” she says, an echo of himself from earlier on. But there’s a definite finality in her tone that leaves no room for excuses, no opportunity for redemption. There’s no doubt about it, not anymore. He’s lost her.

 

“Theon will have his voice heard as soon as he’s able,” she declares. “I will defend him if nobody else will, with or without your permission. I am the Lady of Winterfell—justice will be served within my walls as I see fit.”

 

He’s like a dam threatening to erupt, but by then it’s too late; she’s walking past him, her own walls fully erected around herself, impenetrable no matter what he may so or do. Guilt still overwhelms him, keeping him frozen in place, and he’s unable to do so much as steal a glance over his shoulder.

 

When she speaks, it’s like the heavy toll of a bell, a ring in his ears that continues to echo in his mind long after she’s left.

 

“You ought to mind the rumors a little more. If what everyone whispers is true, the Queen’s consent will be just as good as yours, no matter which end of the Kingdom you’re subject to.”

 

* * *

 

In the days that follow, Jon comes to learn that the private conversation they had held on the top of the rampart had most likely been their last; no such opportunity presents itself again, despite the fact that she is a constant presence in his council chambers, along with his advisors. Sometimes he finds himself throwing long looks in her direction, but her face is still a labyrinth of dead ends. She may speak with him, but Sansa refuses to speak _to_ him—there’s a world of difference where she’s concerned, and the mere fact that he’s able to discern one from the other leaves him in a queer state of defeat. He should be relieved at her cold affront, he tells himself, while he stares past the shoulders of his lords, snippets of their conversation dancing through his mind mercilessly. It should make things easier to stay away from her, darken the memories that he clings to, but it doesn’t. He’s drawn towards her more than ever now, just like a moth to a flame, with no relief in sight. Jon discloses none of his anxieties ever, neither to Sam or Ser Davos, and certainly not to Dany. Instead, he goes about his days as if they’re like any other, with the fate of humanity barely tethered, the lives of millions wading through the deep ocean of his consciousness, all while trying to dispel some vain belief that Sansa is lost to him. The scales had never leaned to one side as they do now, and yet her cold affront feels as heavy as the weight of the world that’s bolstered against his shoulders.

 

He’ll never be able to stop thinking about her.

 

* * *

 

Tonight’s supper is no grand affair. The Great Hall is only half-occupied, while the meal itself is without fuss or elegance. It’s more somber, subdued, even though a troupe of musicians attempts to liven the setting with some merry tunes. But the music offers no relief from his thoughts. No matter how mindful he is, his eyes still manage to drift back towards the empty seat—hers. Sansa still hasn’t appeared, and the longer she remains absent, the more he wonders if he’s always been this fixated.

 

“Lady Stark sends her apologies,” Lady Brienne finally comes to inform them, hands clasped behind her back. “But I’m afraid that she’s feeling somewhat unwell, and felt it more beneficial to excuse herself from supper.”

 

Dany says something in response, but the words are lost on him while he stares sullenly at the empty seat. Had Sansa been present, he wouldn’t have dared to look at that spot so blatantly, but there is nothing stopping him now. And yet, despite the freedom allotted to him this evening, he’s left feeling hollow, thwarted somehow. It’s petty and childish, he knows, but he can’t help but feel as if she’s actively denying him whatever pleasure that’s left to him, being absent as she is. The long trestle had been like a black mark for him whenever she had been present, but now he thinks it’s even worse off, without her.

 

“It’s nothing serious, is it?” He asks, as soon as he realizes what Lady Brienne has informed them of; he’d heard her when she had first spoken, and yet the words hadn’t seemed to register until now, other than that Sansa would not be attending them tonight. Worry begins to coil inside him, unraveling at a rapid pace as he tilts his head up to look at Sansa’s protector, whose face remains passive. She’s still something of an enigma, this lady knight who seems capable enough to reach for the sky, though she also seems more grounded than even some of his own advisors. Jon never stops to wonder if she’s capable of lying, never takes a moment to ponder on the possibility that loyalty and honor might be two completely separate entities for this woman, even while he should know better.

 

“Lady Stark believes that it’s just a bit of overexertion, Your Grace,” she replies in that strong, unwavering voice of hers. “She insists that it’s nothing that rest won’t be able to solve.”

 

He nods silently, his eyes darting towards the empty spot on the long trestle again, against his will.  

 

“Should you see her again, please give Lady Stark our regards,” Dany encourages, smiling broadly. “The King and I wish her a good night’s rest. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

 

Both women turn to look at him, their faces expectant, lined with curiosity. He’s only capable of staring back at them, unable to shake off the notion that he’s being put on trial for something. When his eyes meet Dany’s, with their astounding violet hue, he knows the questions that lie at the tip of her tongue. She’ll never voice them, however, just like he’s sure he’ll never provide her with any answers, if only because he isn’t sure he has any to offer.

 

Jon looks at Lady Brienne. “Tell her that we miss her presence,” he says conscientiously, with a tight smile.

 

Lady Brienne bows her head in deference. “Of course,” she affirms, before leaving them entirely. Jon watches her retreating figure, still intimating even at a distance, wondering if she’ll deliver their messages, whether she’ll give them to Sansa exactly as it had been spoken. He thinks he knows the way to Sansa’s bedchamber like he knows his way with a sword, has even made his way towards it in total darkness. He’ll never venture there now, not anymore.

 

Except that he had—in a way, at least. When he had dreamt of his mother, only a few nights prior. This time, Jon is certain that it had been a dream, even while it had been eerily vivid in nature. Just as it had been so many moons ago. Had she not been there, the woman he had never met, only heard of, Jon thinks that he would have mistaken the dream for a memory instead, an event drawn from a time that seems long forgotten.

 

_My name is Lyanna Stark. Will you come play with me?_

A girl, an infant, her grey eyes as wise as those belonging to an ancient sage, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. With a grin that edges towards the mischievous, she dashes out of his solar without hesitation, and he dashes after her, all before there is any chance for him to ponder over the strangeness of it all, that he’s chasing after his mother—his mother, before she had become the face that thousands had died for, the symbol for the fall of a great and terrible dynasty. Had it all ended there, with him searching her out in a harmless, playful game of hide and seek, he doesn’t believe it would have reverberated with him the way it does now, but it doesn’t. Jon realizes too late that the chamber his mother chooses to hide in is already occupied by another; it’s with utter surprise when Sansa emerges from a door separate from that which he had come in through, and it’s with equal, if not greater shock, when he discovers that she can’t see him. About her room she goes, the ends of her skirts making a soft rustle against the stone floor, completely oblivious to his presence, though she somehow manages to avoid running into him, even when he finds himself staring right into her blue eyes more than once. They show not a hint of recognition. From behind the heavy curtains, he can hear his mother giggling in delight. He could go to her freely, declare his victory, but he doesn’t want to; something in Sansa’s movements keep him rooted to the spot, even while there is nothing out of the ordinary about them. Perhaps, even while dreaming, he’s conscious of the fact that he’s spent so little time with her, beyond the company of his court, that he’ll resort to this, if he must, if it’s all he can have. He nearly starts when she lowers herself onto her knees to pull something from beneath her bed, but she’s back on her feet just as quickly, placing on top of the furs a wooden casket. A key is required to unlock it—Jon remembers that she had retrieved something from one of the drawers of her dressing table—but when she lifts back the lid, the contents within the casket are kept hidden from his sight, obscuring something that Sansa looks at with quiet awe. There is something deeply intimate about her actions, something highly reverent, as well; he can sense that he’s not privy to whatever is in that container, but he is still unable to resist. He doesn’t even feel remorse as he makes his way around her, towards the opposite side of the bed, so that he can see what lies within that nondescript casket.

 

Its contents are lost to him, in the end, when he opens his eyes into the disappointing darkness of his own bedchamber, before he had ever gotten the chance to lean over Sansa’s shoulder. And there had been his mother, still hiding gleefully behind the heavy curtains, wrongfully convinced that she hadn’t been found, that she had won.

 

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

 

Jon turns his head to the side to look at Dany. She’s got that same expression she had when Lady Brienne had still been present, only this time it’s more explicit. The hair at the top of her head is braided in its usual intricate style, and he can imagine the trajectory of plaits that converge and digress in a seamless manner at the back. The first time he had ran his calloused fingers through her hair, it had been completely undone; he had learned that Dany is never as naked as when her hair is loose, never as vulnerable. She never seems to love anything more than when he would touch her hair, could never stop herself from leaning into his hand when he did so. Such memories are dangerous, he thinks, staring into her violet eyes—it tears open that staunch confusion of a moon ago, when they had stood together on a private balcony attached to the Red Keep, Blackwater Bay stretched out like eternity before them. But they didn’t have eternity, he had realized, while he had studied her braids. All that had been left to them was the present, only the now, a time that left little in the way of love and passion. And even while he had told Dany of his plans, his determination to go back north as soon as possible, his mind had wondered whether he did love her.

 

“Is it Lady Stark you’re preoccupied with?” She pushes, when he says nothing.

 

“No.”

 

“You _are_ thinking about her,” Dany says, her tone smudged with accusation. It’s not meant to be malicious, but neither is something to gloss over.                                                             

 

“I only wonder if she’ll be alright,” he responds. Another lie, one that he knows Dany sees right through, but she won’t make a scene in front of all their subjects. Instead she sighs in mild exasperation, bringing her goblet to her lips.

 

“Did you know that Lady Stark always struck me as someone invincible to any natural shortcomings?”

 

His eyebrows furrow at the immense tapestry hanging on one of the walls before he looks at her again. “What do you mean by that?”

 

No immediate response is given as she continues to sip from her goblet, her eyes watching those in the Great Hall over the rim of her cup.

 

“You’ve spoken of all the Starks you’ve lost,” she points out. “It just makes me wonder about all the ones that are still alive today. If death hasn’t fallen upon them, when it’s befallen on everyone else they love, wouldn’t you think it something like immortality, what they’re granted? It makes sense to me, for some reason.”

 

Dany returns her goblet to the table, glancing at him.   

 

“We’re not immortal,” he says. “We’re just bent on survival.”

 

 _Difficult to kill_ , he’d said once, to Robb, before he’d known better.

 

“But it was you who said that there ought to be more to it all than just surviving,” she reminds. “You want to live as well, Jon. Don’t you?”

 

The right answer ought to be yes, but for some reason he doesn’t find any satisfaction in it. Death has changed him in certain ways, some apparent and some not so much, but the desire to live, he has found, is not as explicit as he might have believed, once. _Yes_ , he ought to say to her, _Yes—of course I want to live_. _I want to be alive._ But it’s not enough. Not for him.

 

“I want to be happy,” he confesses, before he realizes it.

 

Dany blinks at him several times, her elven-like features still relaxed. Kingship has made him harder, but for her, the opposite seems to have applied. Hers will always be a youthful face, beautiful as it is majestic, while he’ll always carry with him that irrevocable somberness that he’s inherited from his Stark ancestry. Looking straight at her now, he can’t help but think how, in another time, he might have leaned forward to kiss her. He would’ve delighted in the sweet taste of wine that lingers on her soft lips, swept along her tongue, in the same way that he’d delighted in once, when things had been different. He thinks he would’ve done so now, if he’d had less will-power.

 

He realizes that he had meant what he’d said. Jon wants to be happy, as much as he thinks he wants to be alive. But he doesn’t know if someone like Dany can make that happen, and he wouldn’t want to put that responsibility on her, besides. He wouldn’t want that responsibility on anybody.

 

Jon is grateful when she turns away. “I think you’re asking for too much,” she accuses, softly. He doesn’t argue with her.

 

They don’t say much after that, both of them lost in their own swirl of thoughts. At the behest of an eager knight whose grin is as excited as it is infectious, Dany rises from her seat to join the dance number that has spontaneously erupted at the center of the Great Hall, and he smiles reassuringly at her when she glances over her shoulder a little tentatively. They’re performing a northern dance, one that he’s certain Dany knows not the steps to. Still, that doesn’t seem to stop her one bit; with as much grace as she possesses, she finds her way through the dance, following as best as she can, at her partner’s instruction. He watches quietly from the raised platform, noting the way that she laughs and fights her way throughout, determined to enjoy the performance when she can’t keep up as well as her northern counterparts, though her grin remains as bright and lively as her hair. Dany will always leave him in awe, he reflects, no matter what actions she performs.

 

_You ought to mind the rumors a little more._

As if she had spoken out loud, his eyes dart towards Sansa’s seat. It’s empty, as it had been the entire evening.

 

It’s only been a little over a week ago when Jon had spoken to her at the top of the rampart, and yet the rarity of the situation is almost enough to convince him that it hadn’t even been real. Perhaps he’d merely dreamt it all, the way he had dreamt of her last night. It’s their conversation that extends a shadow of harsh reality over the whole thing, and he’s left facing the implications her words had torn open. They hang heavy in the air, like a strange odor, leaving him with the a strong urge to order all the windows drawn wide open, despite the wretched cold that’ll invite itself in, the gusts of wind that will surely extinguish every light in the Great Hall.

 

Just as the troupe begins a new harmony, it dawns on him that he hasn’t seen Theon since the attack. If he’s to be honest, though, he hasn’t seen much of the ironborn at all. His presence in the Northern March had been at Dany’s request, not his, for he would have been content had Theon joined his sister back to the Iron Islands. Yara Greyjoy had offered him a generous number of ironborn men towards the War, in exchange for the assistance he had provided, but her younger brother she could not sway. Theon’s decision to go north had been his own. A shame he couldn’t be convinced otherwise; Jon thinks that he wouldn’t be in the shape he’s currently in, had he only stayed put in the land of his birth. Those sporadic occasions when Sam brings him a report of his recovery are blurry and irrelevant, save for the fact that he’s reminded of his conversation with Sansa and the half-threat she had voiced. The thing is that Sansa’s concern for the ironborn constantly outshines the man himself, but when Jon manages to slip away from the Great Hall, it’s finally to see him.

 

The door to his bedchamber is left slightly ajar when he arrives, so that a pristine stretch of light floods the ground beneath his boots. It had occurred to him halfway towards his destination that Theon might be asleep, and even the light from his room doesn’t shake this belief. Rather, it’s the dim sound of voices coming from within that does it; Jon is surprised that Theon would have company at such an hour, despite his own intentions at this very moment. It could be an attendant, perhaps, working under Sam’s direction, instructed to check on him before the final bell of the evening is struck. Jon leans into the door, hoping to gain some impression of the visitor. When he catches the intonation of one particular voice, with its unmistakable pitch, he steps back in confusion.

 

He doesn’t want to believe it, but Jon knows that he isn’t wrong, even when he pushes the door open and steps through defiantly, his eyes meeting her Tully-blue ones. And even after that, he still wants to believe that Sansa’s voice hadn’t been the one he’d overheard from the other side.

 

 

 **AN:** First off, thank you so, so much for all your thoughts and comments! The response towards this story totally blew me out of the water, and I’m glad you enjoyed the first chapter. I apologize that this one came out so late, but I hope you all enjoy it just as much. As always, any response is a delight; it’s like having potatoes everyday. Thanks again for reading, folks!


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa’s eyes dawned with realization while she stared back at him, her face a kaleidoscope of surprise and panic that burst wide open before swallowing itself up again as she recovered from his unexpected appearance. 

“Hello, Jon,” she greeted evenly. Sansa may have had the sense to speak first, but her tone was distant—as distant as it had been when she’d spoken to him on the rampart. It was like she had thrown ice water over him, jolting him out of his dazed bewilderment. The fact that she sounded so casual, as if her presence wasn’t anything strange to ponder over whatsoever, only set him off the edge just a little further.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He demanded, barely able to mask the frustration in his voice. His mind had been circling around her for most of the evening while he tried to keep his concerns at bay, but here she was, standing tall before him, her blue eyes as alert as ever. Candlelight spilled over her hair, transforming it into the colour of spun gold, but it was powerless in thawing the coldness in her stance. “Lady Brienne said that you weren’t feeling well,” he related, refusing to cower beneath her hard stare.

Theon’s voice cut through the silence that followed, just as her lips parted in preparation for a response. “Don’t be cross with her, please,” he pleaded.

Jon tore his eyes from Sansa’s to glare at the ironborn reclining in bed, his back against the oaken headboard. Despite his initial intentions, Jon had completely forgotten about Theon as soon as he caught sight of the woman who sat in the chair beside his bed. His face wavered a bit when he took in the ironborn’s damaged frame—shoulders and torso wrapped heavily in linen, with one side of his face well-battered and swollen, the other mottled with bruises, some of them ranging from a deep purple to a sickly yellow.

His grip on the door handle tightened. Jon was still trying to wrap his head around the scene laid out before him, despite the fact that there was nothing complicated to it—nothing at all. Was it because of the stark clarity behind it? He had spent far too much time mentally grappling with the nature of Sansa’s connection with Theon, this newfound affinity that they had unearthed so suddenly; now that there was a picture he could attach to it, something physical and tangible, Jon could only stand and stare.

“Please don’t be cross with Sansa,” Theon entreated again. “It’s my fault she’s here. I asked her to come,” he explained hurriedly.

“It is _not_ your fault,” Sansa protested, shaking her head defiantly, red hair dancing around her face in conjunction with her movements. She rose to her feet in one swift movement—Jon couldn’t help but liken the act to a swan extending her majestic wings in preparation for a flight. “Lady Brienne was only following my orders,” she admitted, head held high. If she felt guilty in the least for lying to him, Sansa managed to conceal it wonderfully. So proficient was she in her ability to rein in her feelings that Jon had to start questioning his own. He was beginning to accept that his bitterness was in league with his jealousy, but what right did he have to be jealous?

“What are _you_ doing here, Jon?” Sansa fired back, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. Strange to think that he had just associated her with a swan, when, at that moment, there was very little to differentiate between herself and a she-wolf protecting her cub. That Sansa eyed him as if he was ready to attack startled him just as powerfully as she’d done earlier, making him the outsider he had always felt like when they were younger. _We aren’t supposed to be like this anymore_ , he wanted to shout at her desperately, Theon’s presence be damned. But Jon feared that his words would only get lost in the arabesque patterns of her gown, like smoke that floated upwards into the gray skies above; he remembered the way his words had fallen onto her deaf ears while they had spoken on the rampart. Had Sansa truly decided to cut herself off from everything sensible, or was there more to it that he didn’t quite understand?

“Well?”

Jon blinked at her. “I came to see Theon,” he answered, glancing back at the man in question again. He felt uneasy at the way the ironborn was observing the both of them, as if he was trying to decipher what hadn’t been said out loud. “I wanted to see if you were all right,” he added, speaking directly to him for the first time.

A smile ghosted across Theon’s mouth before vanishing completely, making his haunted gaze all the more unsettling. “I’m not dead, you see. I suppose that’s a decent start to anything.”

He nodded at him once before turning back towards Sansa. She remained standing with a defensive air still around her, but the expression on her face was faltering. Jon was torn between wanting to dismiss her outright and crumbling onto his hands and knees, desperate to find any gaps in the mountain that stood between them, if the minutest space existed so that he could crawl through. He had sensed their formation as far back as the morning when they had bidden their farewell to one another, stilted and hollow as it was. _I will return_ , he had promised, but Sansa’s gaze remained fixed on the happenings in the main courtyard, her doubt rolling off of her in waves. Jon honestly thought he could’ve drowned. He couldn’t think there was a way to mend the bridges they’d burned in the wake of their passion, of their sin, not while a threat greater than any of them loomed dangerously beyond the Wall. His reticence was coming back to haunt him now, he realized, while his heart crawled its way up his throat.

“I was worried for you,” he admitted, because it felt like the only thing to say. “Does she know you’re here? Lady Brienne?”

Sansa turned her head to the side, eyes falling on Theon. “Nobody knows,” she confided, just before she broke into a smile. A sad one, Jon thought, but it was a knowing one, too.

Her profile was just as beautiful. Her patrician nose was still as sharp as a blade, while the silhouette of her lips made them even more prominent and enticing, especially after he had discovered just how sweet they were. Jon found it peculiar that he was always so fixated on the lips he had tasted, whether it had been here, at Winterfell, or sailing along Blackwater Bay from Dragonstone. He should never been given the privilege to indulge in such temptations, but he had. Now he was left in a mess of confusion and guilt, sinking under the weight of everything else that was happening around them. Jon was as much to Sansa as she was to him—in their current state, though, that didn’t even amount to anything. He would never be able to rationalize the trouble he had while trying to staunch the flare of jealousy threatening to burn through him as he watched the pair in front of him, a scene that looked as if he should never have been privy to.

“Sansa,” he pleaded. She didn’t acknowledge him, not immediately. When she finally faced him again, there was no denying the desolation and sadness that Jon knew she was desperate to hide. She was like a candle that burned with twice the intensity as those around her, only to burn out quicker than all the others—it wasn’t her choice, either, but what the greed of men had set upon her. The human condition was full of great and terrible follies, he lamented, but it pained him to think that Sansa—sweet, strong, beautiful Sansa—was subjected to it so harshly.

It frightened him just as much to think that he might have been part of the force that brought her down, let alone accept it. 

“Let me walk you back to your chambers,” he implored. Jon grimaced—even to his ears he sounded desperate, but he realized just how badly he wanted to talk to her. He _needed_ to. Not the distant, formal way that they would converse when they were in the company of their advisors, but the way they used to when they existed behind closed doors, free of constraints and expectations and all the things that kept them shackled to a reality they wished they weren’t always obligated to. Jon remembered when he used to kiss the space between her breasts, remembered wishing that _that_ should have been the only universe there was.

They had tried retaliating, the two of them, but they had only made things worse.

 _And_ you _—you’ve only made it worse,_ whispered a foreign voice in the hollow crevices of his mind, something far off but all-encompassing at the same time, like the echoes of a mountainside.

“That won’t do,” she said, shaking her head adamantly as she approached him. He still stood in the doorway with his fingers still tightly wrapped around the door handle, like an obstacle she would have to face if she wanted out of this room. “I’ll find my own way back,” she declared, just as she made to pass him.

“Sansa–”

 _“No,_ ” she bit out, snapping her head around to stare at him. The weariness in her eyes mine as well have been a sword through his shoulder blade.

“No,” she repeated, more gently this time, but it did little to soothe his wounds. “Not now, Jon.”

The intricate patterns on her grey dress left him almost disoriented as he tried to follow its trajectory over her shoulders, across her chest, down to her stomach. It was never like this with Dany’s clothes; his aunt favored dresses of solid colours, a clear symbol of her steadfastness and strength. The abstract designs on Sansa’s gown left him confused, out-of-touch, but Jon wondered if that was meant to be their intention.

As if she was trying to hide something.

Sansa passed him without another word. Even if he tried, Jon doubted that he would’ve been able to stop her. Sansa’s steps were quick and purposeful as she walked down the corridor, until, finally, the shadows engulfed her altogether. That was how it was for them: a series of trials where she walked away from him, all while their relations were still as fraught as they were since he came home.

Sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts, Jon nearly lost all knowledge of where he was. That perceptible feeling of being watched brought him back to his surroundings, reminding him that he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

Theon remained silent. Jon saw how he would clutch the furs strewn over his legs before loosening his hold, only to repeat the action over and over.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” he ordered.

The ironborn didn’t respond immediately, but it was clear that he wanted to. Jon’s patience was wearing thin; he wasn’t going to wait forever.

“She’s a lot lonelier than you know,” Theon said at last, stumbling gently on his words, but his gaze never faltered.

His tone wasn’t critical in the least, but to Jon it still sounded like an accusation to him, a painful jab. “What do _you_ know about Sansa?” He sniped, clenching his jaw stubbornly.

“Not as much as you, no doubt,” Theon confessed, staring off into the flames dancing in the hearth. “That doesn’t mean I’m blind to her sorrows and pain.”

When Theon looked back at him again, his face pensive, Jon saw a man so vastly different from the boy he’d grown up with. The ironborn had always been so full of confidence and banter, always eager to expound on all the ways he knew how to pleasure a woman, but that spirit had been completely snuffed out now. Sansa once told him about the man she’d found when she came back to Winterfell, a shell of a man who was so badly damaged that he mine as well have been a ghost. Jon knew from Tyrion Lannister that he’d been castrated, as memberless as the eunuchs that made up part of Dany’s immense host, but it wasn’t until he’d seen him face to face again that he was truly able to grasp the changes that had taken place. Now, with his battered face upon him, Jon couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay.

“What happened that night you were attacked?” He asked, unable to hold back his inquiry. Jon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, unable to trust himself to go any closer to Theon, who he was still wont to throttle whenever he got near enough. It made him no less vile than the party that had assaulted him, a fact that Jon was in no way proud of, but barely able to contain.

Theon shrugged, unsurprised by the question. “You—you left so many of them here, all these soldiers, while you went away to the Gift. They’re armed and ready for battle, but there’s nothing to quench their bloodlust. Men in that state get restless, most of the time.”

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe I understood where some of their anger came from. I know what people think of me, here in Winterfell. I know better than anyone. How can I blame them for their hatred?”

Jon didn’t know what compelled him. “Sansa doesn’t hate you,” he informed, even while it pained him to say it out loud. “She has absolutely every reason to be, but she doesn’t.”

Theon didn’t react. “Sansa has a gentle heart,” he said. “I’m grateful for someone like her.”

His face was as somber as ever, but his voice was flecked with affection and warmth as he spoke. Jon’s irritation began to simmer again, his mind reaching towards all the questions and possibilities that decided to make an appearance. He was still at odds with Theon and Sansa’s newly-formed connection, even while he had no right to pry.

“Has Sansa told you about the hearing?”

Theon nodded slowly. “She wanted your blessing, but she says that you won’t give it.”

“You understand why, don’t you?”

“Aye.”

Despite his agreement, Jon saw the way Theon’s face fell as he bowed his head to look down at his fingers again. “I’ve already told her that a hearing isn’t necessary. It would only make things worse, and I didn’t come back here to start trouble.”

It was a complete relief to hear that. “Did she take it well?” He inquired, opting to take a step further into the room, his relief momentarily trumping the animosity he harbored for the man reclining in the bed. Jon eyed the chair that Sansa had been sitting in when he first caught a glimpse of her, wondered what exactly the two had been discussing before he had interrupted.

“Well enough, Theon answered. “Sansa wasn’t pleased with my answer, it’s true, but she didn’t press any further when she realized that I wasn’t going to change my mind.”

“She was near willing to travel to all seven Hells and back for you,” Jon admitted, even while it vexed him to do so. The longer he remained in the ironborn’s presence, the more tempted he was to ask him what kind of relations he was having with Sansa. It was his pride—fear, as well, perhaps—that stopped him; he refused to let Theon, of all people, see him unravel. Something about this conversation, though, kept luring him in.

“What have you been telling Sansa these days?” Jon asked, before another idea struck him. “What has she been telling _you_?”

Theon shook his head slowly, as if any greater effort was too extraneous; judging by his appearance, it might well have been. “It’s not my place to tell you what she’s spoken about,” he stated.

“Because it was about me, wasn’t it?” His fingers curled into fists.

“Not just you,” Theon corrected. “She’s speaks curiously about others, too. About Daenerys Targaryen.”

As soon as her name came out of his mouth, Jon remembered all too well Sansa’s face, of the hurt that had bloomed on it. _Is that what you call her in private?_

The name had slipped out of him so naturally, without even so much as a second thought to it, but her question had thrown him off course, what with all the implications it conjured. Dany—that was what Jon _did_ call her when they were alone. When they used to lie naked beside one another, questioning the trajectory of their lives, when she told him stories about Essos and the Free Cities—of a world full of colour and histories so different and yet so similar to the continent he’d spent his whole life on—while his bare shoulder bumped against hers.

Jon realized, at the same moment, that Sansa might just have been thinking the same thing.

“Do you love her?”

Theon’s question shattered his reverie, like a rock hurled against a glass-paneled window. Jon stood frozen on the spot, lost for words, despite his desire to hurl a storm of expletives over the ironborn for daring to bring something like that up. Where did Theon think he had the right to ask him a question like that? Why did Theon think he had the right to _know,_ even?

Amidst the chaos that danced in his mind, something dawned on him: Jon didn’t know which woman Theon was referring to. His discovery only issued another wave of confusion and fear over him, threatening to dismantle even faster, like a thread pulled viciously away from the spindle it had been wrapped around endlessly.

“You don’t get to ask me something like that,” Jon bit out, narrowing his eyes at him. Now was as good of a time as ever to leave, he realized, before the ironborn doled out more questions he couldn’t find the words to answer. “I’ll send someone to attend you,” he informed bluntly, turning his back on him. Theon’s question still echoed through his mind relentlessly.

“We’re all broken in some way,” Theon said aloud, determination etched in his voice. “Even Sansa,” he opined.

Jon stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to glare at the ironborn.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

Theon stared at him. “I know that Sansa’s heartbroken,” he confided, quietly. “She hides it well, but there’s only so much she’s able to cover up. She’s hurt. And she’s lonely. Can _you_ swear to know as much, Jon?”

He didn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

 

_His body, facedown in the dirt and broken leaves. A sacrifice to the Old Gods, but they were never known to accept them._

_A sacrifice to Winterfell, then, for all she’s lost._

 

* * *

 

Sansa couldn’t help the wide smile that appeared on her face while she watched the child that was playing before her. She knew not whether Little Sam’s shrieks were uttered in delight or discontent, but they echoed throughout the cottage in a way that was as hopeful as sunshine in the dead of winter. Once she had always thought that only stories and the lyrics from her favorite songs could move her, but every wordless sound that Sam made was as endearing and moving as the last. He was the reason why she found herself visiting the Tarlys’ home whenever the chance allowed itself, regardless of the lengthy walk required to reach it, a remnant of the winter town located beyond the castle’s main gate house. No matter how low she felt, the sight of the Tarly infant never failed to lift her spirits.

“Why must you be such an awful delight whenever I come round?” She complained gently, wiggling one of his feet that poked out from the hem of his gown. With eyes perfectly shaped like almonds and a mop of hair that was the color of spun gold, Little Sam must have been the handsomest infant for leagues on end—it would take much to convince her otherwise. Even the twisted and terrible history he was born from did little to tarnish the beauty he was so full of. Sansa was well aware of the child’s parentage, but she’d stopped concerning herself about that a long while back.

“You always bring him gifts, see,” Gilly pointed out. They all sat atop a fur rug that was placed a safe distance apart from the hearth, with dozens of small learning blocks scattered around them. While Sansa had played with Little Sam, the former wildling distracted herself with the blocks, where the sides of each one was painted a different color to differentiate the letter that was etched into it. “I think he senses when you’re about to come by, because he’s always so much more happy and agreeable beforehand,” Gilly explained.

Sansa carded her fingers through the infant’s hair, reveling in its softness. “I can’t imagine Sam being anything but a joy,” she protested, allowing him to fist strands of her own hair that he’d managed to grab hold of. She loved that he was just as fascinated by her auburn locks as she was with his golden ones; one too many times Sam had gone and stuffed her hair in his mouth, only to stare up at her afterwards with disappointment. It never stopped him from trying again, though.

If she hadn’t run into Maester Tarly near the entrance of the crypts, today’s visit would never have occurred. The maester had invited her back to his cottage for a spot of dinner with his family, but she was hesitant to intrude on their privacy. Sam had insisted, nonetheless, while the promise of seeing his adopted son again was too tempting for her. Sansa would’ve been lying to herself if she said that she didn’t want to go, besides; while the reality of the situation at hand dawned on everyone more and more, her longing for family magnified tenfold. Memories would always crop up in her mind here and there while she went about her duties, passing through corners where she remembered playing in with her siblings, or springing up in the middle of a conversation with the master of kennels, who was still alive, even after Theon’s attack and the destruction wrought on by the Boltons. What would it be like, she wondered, to share a meal with all of her sisters and brothers again, all of them gathered around a blazing fire as they supped on childhood favourites? Even after everything that had happened between them, Sansa still included Jon in her fancies, too; he would sit the way he did while she had drank her soup, holding his cup of bitter ale in both hands and smiling at her softly when she turned to look at him, still unsure if she’d finally lost her mind, that he was a phantom in her mad imaginings. But Jon had been real—solid to the touch, even after he told her about Ser Allister’s mutiny and the Red Lady’s magic—and she didn’t think she could be happier. When she felt particularly lonely, Theon would be there, too, his smile a little broken, just as it was now, but with just the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes. The ironborn was back in his little hovel attached to the Broken Tower, his wounds mostly healed, but he was nowhere fit to take up a sword. With the help of a carpenter she was able to get a plank fashioned, one that would fit nicely against the entrance and keep out the draft a bit better.

She couldn’t help but finger some of the learning blocks within her reach while keeping her eyes on Little Sam, fixated as he was on the gift she had brought for him. Curious, Sansa gathered a few of the blocks together before forming them in a row. “What word do I have here, Sam?” She challenged, tapping the last block in the row with a finger. He was on his feet now, staring at the blocks fixedly for a moment before kicking them away. Sansa shook her head with mild amusement. 

Gilly scolded her son for his behavior, but he paid no heed. “Cou—could I see that again, my lady?” She requested.

Sansa knew that Gilly could not read; the former wildling had told her how the late Princess Shireen tried to teach her, but the lessons had been sporadic and short. With all the responsibilities that were hefted on her shoulders, Sansa could offer nothing better, either, but she was more than happy to help when she could. The learning blocks weren’t exactly much, but they turned out to be a delight to both mother and son.

When she was finished forming the word again, the former wildling tilted her head to see. The way she was frowning spoke of her inner struggle to piece the syllables together, but the more she sounded them out, the closer she got. Sansa did not rush her. “Fam-ily,” Gilly pronounced, with a little stutter. “Family,” she said again, this time with more confidence.  

Sansa nodded at her, smiling warmly. “That’s right, Gilly. Family. You, and Samwell Tarly, and Little Sam. You’re a family.”

The words brought about a fresh wave of yearning that she hadn’t anticipated; Sansa ducked her head with the pretence of forming another word with the learning blocks. “What letter is this, Sam?” She inquired, offering a block to him. He took it gingerly from her before making a vain attempt to throw it, but it slipped from his fingers and landed back on the rug. Sansa giggled.

“Sam says that you were in the crypts today,” Gilly recounted. “Is that true, my lady?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And the crypts…that’s where you keep your dead, isn’t it?”

Sansa lifted her head. Gilly wore a mixed expression of fascination and fear, her mouth slightly agape in wonder. She realized that she had spotted a similar look on her son’s face before.

“They’re not my dead, exactly,” she explained gently, mindful of Gilly’s feelings. “The Starks are all buried in the crypts when they die, except for the women who marry into another family.”

“Do you go alone? Aren’t you afraid?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, with a little nod. “But then I remember that there’s really nothing to be afraid of, because just about everyone I love is down there. If there are spirits in the crypts, they’ll only haunt those who wish ill on the Starks, you see.”

Gilly looked unconvinced. “Sam says that Jon—His Grace, I mean—he says that His Grace does not like going to the crypts. He thinks he’s not allowed down there because he’s not a Stark.”

“Jon _is_ a Stark,” she insisted. No matter what had unraveled between them, she still meant it. “Jon will always be a Stark,” she declared. “No matter what others say or think. After what he’s done for his family, he couldn’t be anything else.” How could he be, when he had help reclaim Winterfell for her and their remaining siblings? And what about later on—who else could Jon have been when he agreed to touch her the way she asked him to? She’d been so desperate to regain a piece of who they once were; Sansa had wanted him to wipe out all the memories that continued to scar her mind through the only means she thought possible. He’d gone and complied with that request as well, but, oh, what a mess that had led to. Perhaps there was something of a clairvoyant inside of her, a part of her that had known that Jon was bound to leave her one way or another. Maybe deep down she wanted to keep a piece of him when she knew that it was impossible, but it had turned out that all she’d done was lose what was left of _her._

The fire crackled in the small hearth that was crudely built in the wall to her right, tempered with the occasional sharp snap as a log split. She often came to the Tarlys’ cottage to forget about the things that happened inside the walls of the castle, including Jon. Sansa sighed. It was inevitable, she supposed, that his presence would finally bleed through. “Jon must’ve forgotten that he used to play in the crypts when we were younger,” she suggested, rubbing one hand against her arm absently, eager to warm herself up, even while the cottage wasn’t cold in the slightest. “But why would we have been afraid of something we didn’t understand? Children don’t know what death entails. I don’t know if that makes them fortunate or not.” She smiled sadly at Sam, but he was completely oblivious to her now.

“The dead have been known to come alive again,” Gilly alleged with a fearful shake of her head. “The bodies in the crypts…couldn’t they come back as well?”

Sansa glanced at the former wildling, who was watching her quietly. “Some of them could, I suppose.” All the statues in the crypts had been accompanied with a sword as well, so as to keep the spirits at bay. Nobody ever accounted for the actual bodies themselves. The flesh had decayed, but what about the skeletons? Did the Night King’s magic extend to such a circumstance? She thought about Rickon, whose body had not quite become all dust and bones; her blood ran cold at the image of his corpse emerging from the tomb he lay in, his eyes completely lifeless and hollow. Little Sam was toying with the blocks about his feet now, but she was swallowed by the future that loomed ominously before him. _Never,_ she thought defiantly, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the crown of his head. Despite the terrible history he’d been born from, Sansa didn’t know a child who was more loved than the one in front of her, with so many people desperate to protect him, sacrifice their life for him. Had her own mother felt just as strongly about her own progeny? She must’ve, Sansa thought, reaching for a few other blocks around her so that Sam could progress with the tower he was trying to build.    

“What do you do while you’re in the crypts, my lady?” Gilly asked, as their conversation lulled. “Is…is that where you pray?”

“I take care of the statues and the tombs, mostly. Rickon’s in particular. Sometimes, if I can find them, I put flowers before his tomb and think about the man he could’ve become if fate had been kinder to him.”

There was a pensive look on Gilly’s face. “People like Sam put flowers on their dead, too,” she informed. Sansa smiled back at her proudly.

“Yes, Gilly, you’re right. It’s a tradition from the Reach.” She hadn’t known about it, not until she had met Margery Tyrell and the ladies she had brought with her. Beauty was as valuable to them as chivalry and honor—it only made sense that their dead would be sent off in a fashion that reflected their values. Her expression near wavered when she thought of her friend, now deceased. No doubt Olenna Tyrell would have showered all the roses and blossoms of Highgarden onto her beloved granddaughter’s corpse, if only one had been found beneath the rubble and stone of the that once made up the Great Sept.  

The distant sound of knocking brought Sansa back to the present. It stopped briefly, only to resume a moment later, this time more with more persistence. Usually Maester Tarly’s young apprentice was available to answer the door, but it was soon obvious that he wasn’t around. As soon as another round started, Gilly rose from the floor to see who was calling, leaving Sansa alone to watch over her son. Little Sam had given up building a tower with the learning blocks and had turned his attentions back on the gift she had brought him. It was a rattle, one that was coarsely made by a creative blacksmith she had asked; the grains inside of it made a robust, crackly sound every time Sam shook it in his chubby fist enthusiastically. Sansa had to walk all the way back to the Main Keep in order to retrieve it, but the excitement that had bloomed on his face when she presented the toy to him had been well worth the journey.

Sansa let him be while she took notice of the learning blocks that lay about, their bright, almost garish colors a far juxtaposition to the hues that existed all around the cottage; pewter accessories on roughhewn wooden surfaces along with grey, unfinished stone walls were natural reminders of the real world she lived in, but the blocks were like a touch of whimsy that she realized had been sorely missing from her life—no, not just hers, she thought, but from everyone’s. The vibrant colors were so characteristic of the childhood that had been taken from her—a childhood where she had seen life through a window of stained glass, a kaleidoscope of colors that had been entirely false, though there was no denying its beauty.

It didn’t occur to her what she had been forming, not until her vision came into focus and she stared down at the line she had made with six of the blocks. The longer Sansa stared, the more she remembered; a smile crept along her lips while she traced each letter with her finger, as if they were a living, breathing entity in themselves. She could feel the areas where the paint had chipped off, evidence of time passed. Time was supposed to have healed her, she thought, but that hadn’t been true. Just how long would it haunt her? How long would the yearning last for?

A gust of white fur completely overwhelmed her vision, a shock that nearly chased the life out of her. Sansa gasped loudly as she stumbled back in surprise, until she discovered a moment later that it was Ghost. The direwolf had his wet nose against her arm as he continued to inspect her, his eyes as red as she always remembered them. Where had he even come from?  

“Gilly,” she began, looking up to ask about Ghost’s sudden appearance, but the figure she had assumed to be the former wildling turned out to be no such person.

Jon towered above her, those gray eyes of his wide with surprise. He was draped in furs that still had flecks of snow clinging all over it, while Longclaw’s ivory pommel peaked out from beneath the folds of his cloak, offering a break from the somber colours of his attire, like a lighthouse in the middle of a moonless night. Sansa was sure that the sight of him would have chilled her to the bone, as his appearance had done when he found her in Theon’s bedchamber more than a sennight ago, but Jon’s presence this time around turned out to have the opposite effect. Suddenly she was burning with indignation, scorching beneath dozens upon dozens of thick layers—as if the heat of the south was upon her. Sansa thought she might’ve been able to walk through fire like his Dragon Queen, convinced that she, too, would come out unscathed. Maybe he would’ve wanted her, she thought with bitter acridity, if only she possessed some of the gifts that his lover did. She wasn’t yet strong enough to delve into all the possibilities of what made Daenerys Targaryen attractive in Jon’s eyes, not after she had gotten more than what she could swallow when she had discussed it with Theon, but her curiosity didn’t wane, either. Sansa knew, for the sake of her pride and her sanity, that she should just gave it all up; and yet, there was something oddly addicting about the pain she suffered through that she just couldn’t let go.  

“Hello, Jon,” she greeted, regarding him with as much nonchalance as she could bear. Was he going to make another outburst like he’d gone and done that night? She wasn’t doing anything duplicitous this time around. Strange that it never dawned on her that she might run into him here, despite the cottage being where his closest friend currently dwelled; Jon was always tied up somewhere, in one war council or another, that it just seemed highly unlikely that he would ever step foot beyond the Main Keep.

Jon was twisting his gloves absently with his hands. “Hallo,” he responded softly, as if he was still wasn’t sure what to make of her. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

When his gaze turned downwards, Sansa realized with an all-consuming panic that he was looking at the row of blocks she was toying with, that he could read the name that she had formed on a whim. A name that he wasn’t privy to.

_He must never know._

With a careless swipe of her hand she scattered the blocks away, praying to all the gods she knew of that he hadn’t seen anything.

Little Sam emitted another yelp of infant delight that penetrated the silence hovering almost painfully between them, a most welcome distraction from the dread that threatened to overwhelm her. When Sansa turned away from Jon to see what the child was up to, she found him playing with Ghost, who nuzzled the boy’s neck with animal affection. It was a heartwarming sight, even if she was feeling a little resentful towards the direwolf for stealing Sam’s attention away from her. The rattle she had brought for him was resting beside him, momentarily forgotten.

“Why are you here?” She asked over the raucous, her eyes still fixed on Sam’s and Ghost’s antics. As long as she had someone else to focus on, Sansa was convinced that she could hold herself together. She was bothered by the fact that her thoughts were constantly in disarray whenever Jon was close by, certain that she had already hurdled over such a shortcoming. Neither was she happy by the fact that they kept on running into each other, either. Wasn’t it in their best interests to stay away from one another?

Well, it was _hers_ , at least.

“I wanted to speak with Sam,” he answered. “Gilly says I’ve just missed him, though.”

Gilly’s voice floated towards them. “But he will be back, Your Grace,” she insisted, reappearing beside Jon, her crooked smile full of easy assurance. “Sam said he would only be gone a moment, but Sam always says things like that, and one moment becomes another, and another, but he always comes back,” she babbled. “He hasn’t finished eating yet, see,” she added, gesturing to the table nearby; sure enough, the remains of his meal were still there, covered by his linen. The stew was cold now, the bread just as so. “Why not stay here and wait for him?” Gilly urged. “I’ll go find him for you.”

Sansa bristled at that, turning her face away from both of them to gather herself together and figure out how she might take her leave. She could handle Jon in a crowded room filled with nobles and advisors, but in a setting as private as this, she wouldn’t last long. After their encounter on the rampart she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to make it through a similar experience, even if Gilly and Little Sam were present.

“I ought to go,” she announced, while she got to her feet. Ghost left Sam to return to her, letting out a whine of protest before pressing his muzzle into the palm of her hand. It was the wrong thing for either of them to do; Sam looked around in confusion, his face screwing up in preparation for a wail.

Unable to ignore his sadness, Sansa bent down on her knees to pick the boy up. “Don’t cry, my little lamb,” she begged, bouncing him up and down in her arms in an effort to cheer him up. “Don’t you know that I’ll never tire of watching you?” she confessed, smoothing his hair away from his face with one free hand. “Will _you_ still like me when I run out of things to give you, my sweet?”

It was uncertain whether Little Sam understood what she was saying; he broke into an open-mouth smile, nonetheless.

“Will you stay with me?”

Sansa darted a furtive glance in Jon’s direction, alarmed by his request. “Why would you want that?”

He gave his leather gloves another sharp twist. “I want to speak to with you, Sansa.”

“About what?”

Jon watched her with a clouded look. She could sense that he was trying to figure out what he could and could not say before Gilly—like most of those around them, she knew little about their fractured relations. United a front they appeared in public, but when the doors closed behind them and the curtains were drawn up, it became another matter altogether.

“It’s about Theon,” he confided.

That made her frown. “Theon,” she echoed flatly.

He nodded at her wordlessly. Sansa wondered, for just a brief moment, if she could trust him.

“You could watch over Little Sam while Gilly’s away,” he suggested off-handedly, when she still watched him with questioning eyes. As if on cue, the boy let out a shriek of delight, all while trying to reach out towards Ghost.

“Yes, you could,” Gilly agreed. “It’ll be faster that way, too, if I don’t have to strap him on my back.”

Sansa regarded both of them pensively. If she had Little Sam with her, maybe it wouldn’t go so bad, she reasoned. The child was too much of a joy to walk away from, so much so that he could even override her own hesitations. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything left to discuss between them where Theon was concerned—the ironborn had already turned down the idea of a hearing, anyway, meaning that it wasn’t necessary for Jon to campaign against her participation. Sansa glanced back at him to see if she could discern anything from his demeanor, but she found that she couldn’t look at him for very long, not anymore. It was such a sad turn of events, the pace at which things once so beautiful and charming could mutate into something ugly and unfortunate. She still remembered with clarity how she could barely keep her eyes off him while he stood naked before her, ready to learn and understand him in a way she knew she’d never done before with any man. _I am a snake who has shed its skin once more_ , she had recited again and again, all while she basked in the feel of his bare skin against her palm, warm and safe and everything she could want in that moment. Their pasts had already been set in stone, but the first time he brought her towards her first peak, Sansa had believed that, perhaps, there were some things that could be regained. With paradise flashing behind her eyelids and Jon surrounding her, Sansa had never felt so innocent.

If only she had been smart enough to anticipate the fall. Surely it wouldn’t have turned out as painful as it did, if only she had prepared herself for the corrosion of dreams she should’ve have invested in, anyway. Little Sam was fisting locks of her hair again, pulling her face towards him; would she have felt as lonely as she did now, if those in her life had turned out differently?

Gilly was off as soon as Sansa agreed to watch over Little Sam in her absence, but not before she squeezed her son’s feet affectionately. _Come back soon_ , she pleaded silently, lowering herself back onto the fur rug again with the boy in her arms. She wondered how merciful the gods would be this time around.   

After stowing away his cloak and sword, Sansa pretended not to notice when Jon pulled a low stool towards them that he promptly occupied, just along the edge of the rug that she rested on, together with Little Sam and Ghost. Gilly had offered her the same stool initially, until Sam’s charms had led her onto the floor completely. Through a curtain of her own hair she could make out his boots, but that turned out to be more than enough for her to bear. The silence around them was beginning to grow heavy again; it felt like an eternity later when Jon spoke at last.  

“Theon’s left his chamber in the Main Keep,” he informed.

“I know that.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

Sansa nodded. “I do. Now that he’s mostly recovered from his wounds, he didn’t want to take up the space that was needed.” She didn’t reveal where he’d gone, but that wasn’t any of Jon’s concern.

“I’m glad that he’s healing,” he admitted. “That’s good news to hear.”

She toyed with the hem of Sam’s gown, recalling the one she had completed a fortnight ago. “I hope something like that won’t happen again. Who knows if Theon will survive another beating as severe as the one he just went through?” The thought made her ill, but considering his reluctance to proceed without any public justice, Sansa knew that the possibility of another ambush was high. When she had spoken to the ironborn about his decision to forgo any hearing, she demanded to know if Jon had played any role in his decision. Theon had denied any coercion on his part. Was it possible that he was lying?

 _Of course it’s possible_ , she thought. Jon was leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, his fingers entwined. He was eyeing her with a strange mixture of tender weariness, but it was better than a look of disgust that she’d been anticipating.

“You know, I was wrong to expect that someone as broken as Theon would have been able to help me,” she confessed, keeping her voice as level as possible. Children were perceptible things; she knew that Sam may not understand the things she said out loud, but he could still tell when something was amiss when she used a certain tone around him. Sansa forced a smile on her face when the boy turned away from Ghost to look at her, his deep, blue eyes flecked with curiosity. She liked to think he was asking her if she was all right, if only he was able. “Theon did what he could, when he could. He said he would’ve taken me to the Wall if it meant his life. Who knows if he really meant it, but I believed him at the time. I have every right to hate him as much as everyone else does, but I can’t. I won’t,” she declared, before she drew a shaky breath. “Theon deserves whatever I can offer him.”

There was a light pause. “I should have known that nothing would’ve stopped you from being his champion—not even a whole legion of White Walkers. I was a fool to think I could sway a mind as determined as yours.”

Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at that. “I don’t have very much else, these days,” she murmured, while she still played with the ends of Sam’s gown. Of course the child wasn’t hers, but he was distraction enough from the things she had lost. “Poor Theon,” she breathed. “What’s to be done with him?”

When she lifted her head to look at Jon again, he was watching at her with a studious look on his solemn features. “Theon knows his way with a bow and arrow,” Jon pointed out, “better than he does with a sword, to be sure. I thought it would do him good to teach the fresher recruits how to use them. If we’re serious about using wildfire, we’ll need all the proficient archers we can train.”

She lifted a curious eyebrow. It wasn’t a terrible idea, really. Theon needed something to occupy him, other than ready the weapons he had yet to use. Since the attack, her concerns had been strictly on his recovery; Sansa had put little thought into what he could do afterwards. The fighting would happen soon enough, but until then, he could contribute in different ways. “Will the other men even listen to him?”

“They’ll have to, if they want to survive.”

Whether or not Jon came with the idea spontaneously, she didn’t know. While the idea was still too new, what with no tangible plans to execute it, Sansa found that she liked it, nonetheless. “Theon will agree to that, I hope,” she admitted. Her face didn’t feel as taut as it had been earlier, but the air was still fraught with all the things they left unspoken, of secrets and confessions never to be uncovered.

“Something still needs to be done about Lord Hornwood,” she pointed out, ignoring her pain. Lord Cerwyn, in a surprising turn of events, had come forward to confess his role in Theon’s attack, albeit in a drunken state, as he claimed. It was far easier to dole out punishment to those who admitted to the crime, rather than those who would not, she learned, hardening at the thought of Hornwood. The man had been undeterred by his peer’s confession, despite the testimonies of the lower-grade soldiers who had been involved. Without a proper hearing, there wasn’t much she could do without inciting the wrath of the other nobles.

Sansa didn’t miss the smirk that flashed on his face before it disappeared beneath his whiskers. “It’s to Lord Hornwood’s good fortune, then, that there’s a vacancy at Easwatch,” he explained.

“What?” She burst out, glaring at him with fury dancing in her eyes. Her features softened when she glanced down at Little Sam, who was watching her curiously againy after the noise she had made. “He nearly killed Theon, and now you’re offering him a keep?”

Jon nodded, undeterred by her anger. “I told him it was his—if he can hold it, that is. Hornwood’s under the impression that a wildling like Tormand isn’t competent enough to lead, that the castle’s going to pieces and the men running amuck. He’s got the opportunity to lord over the castle, provided that he can prove himself capable of doing so.”

“What about Tormund?”

“Doing what he knows. When Hornwood gets to Eastwatch, they’ll only be so many men who will be willing to follow him blindly, until they realize which is the stronger of the two. When it dawns on them, it won’t be long until Hornwood will submit. After that, Tormund can make use of him as he will.”

Sansa studied his figure. “Did you come up with that yourself?”

He shrugged. “Most of it. I remembered Sam’s own upbringing and the kind of man his father had wanted him to be. Maybe Hornwood will learn a thing or two while he’s at The Wall, so long as he doesn’t get himself killed.”

 _By whom?_ She thought, grasping at the fabric of her own gown. By Tormund and the wildlings who had followed him to Eastwatch, or by the White Walkers and the wights that the Night King had conjured amongst the dead?

Daylight poured through the only window in the cottage, highlighting the planes of Jon’s face. The faded scar that cut over his left eye was more visible than it usually was because of the light, a line so out of place because it ran in the opposite direction to the brief lines that were grew more evident across his temple. She hated to think about it, but the memory came unbidden, almost like winter itself: her lips following the length of his scar that started from his forehead, before she slowly made her way past his left eye towards his cheek, where it reappeared again, a soft red isle in an expansive ocean of flesh. Sansa had felt like a connoisseur, an aesthete, reveling in the beauty that had come from what was a mark of pain, of violence and destruction. She had learned of her lover’s scars as well as Jon had learned hers, but had he ever really viewed them as something beautiful, the way she did? Or was the evidence of her abuse just something to pity over?

Her mind full of unwanted images, Sansa turned away from him in the hope of focusing her attention elsewhere. Their conversation had lulled now, the silence as loud as it was uncomfortable; when she rediscovered the learning blocks she’d been playing with earlier, she grabbed at them eagerly, as thankful for their presence as a beggar was thankful for a roll of bread when he hadn’t eaten in days. There was a noise from beyond the cottage, a soft thump that wasn’t unlike the sound Longclaw made when Jon had set it down against the table. It occurred to Sansa that he likely hadn’t come alone; there must’ve been a few guards who had accompanied him out here, if only because precedence dictated it to be so. She pitied them for having to stand out in the cold, if that were truly the case. It made her curious as to what he came to see Sam about.

Sansa was stacking one block on top of another when Jon spoke up, his voice as rough as sandpaper against wood.

“Ser Davos told me that you were making a wedding cloak,” he confided; there was no ignoring the accusation laced in his tone. “And it’s supposed to be for me.”

Her tower of blocks came tumbling down noisily. Jon’s comment didn’t come as a surprise, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t affected by it.

“I am,” she confirmed, her voice as even as she could make it.

“Why?”

Sansa didn’t have the courage to say it. “It’s just a cloak,” she insisted, unsure whether it was for his benefit or whether it was actually for hers. “You _know_ why,” she claimed, her eyes locked on the learning blocks while she spoke. She hated him in that moment, bitter and resentful that he wanted her to say the words out loud, just as she was bitter and resentful of herself. Jon’s wedding cloak was only partially done with the Stark sigil only half-way embroidered in, but if need be she was now willing to bring on a few extra hands to complete the design, women with double the experience and just as nimble with their fingers. She had thought that if she could complete the cloak herself she could prove her strength—with each stitch she darned, Sansa hoped to mend her own heart, split open and irreparable as it may be, to her dismay. Instead, with each stitch that she put in, the weight of her heartache only grew heavier and heavier, until she was left wondering when she would finally crumple under it all.

Jon jumped to his feet without so much as a warning, his stool scraping loudly against the floor from the impact of his movement. Sansa tilted her head up as far as it would go, her eyes meeting his own heated gaze.

“I am not marrying Daenerys Targaryen,” he proclaimed, with so much conviction in his voice that she was almost persuaded enough to believe him. At least this time he was wise enough to use Her Majesty’s full name rather than the informal one he had let slip the last time they’d spoken in private, and she was oddly grateful for it. But, really, what did it matter if he didn’t marry her, in the end? Sansa could’ve placated herself with the thought of a marriage that was purely political; she knew, just like everyone else did, that their relationship was so much more than that. She had wanted so badly to believe that everything she heard was just another of Littlefinger’s lies, except that he had been dead before Jon ever left for the south, had been no more than a rotting corpse when the stories reached her ears, tales of dragons long thought to have been the stuff of songs and poetry—of Cersei Lannister and her sellswords from Essos drawing a river of blood that flowed through the streets of King’s Landing, but she’d gone up in flames anyway, no matter how loud she roared. Sansa hadn’t shed any tears for _those_ stories; no doubt some of them had been exaggerated for the sake of propaganda. But then came those about Jon and the Dragon Queen, of unbridled passion that had no doubt been consummated, many, many times over—it was those tales she could not hold back on, no matter how hard she tried. None of those stories had been Baelish’s fabrications. The realization only made the truth harder to swallow than ever.

Sansa was holding herself together desperately when she allowed herself to speak. “I don’t believe you,” she protested. “Nobody will believe you,” she added.

Hurt danced across his face. “I would never lie to you, Sansa.”

 _That doesn’t mean you won’t hide things from me_ , she thought resentfully. An image of The Dragon Queen’s rose up again in her mind, what with her pale limbs and violet eyes. How often had Jon gotten lost in those eyes? How many times had Jon entangled himself with her?

“You should’ve just married Her Grace in King’s Landing,” she said reproachfully. Sansa was oddly emboldened by his discomfort, even while each word she spoke was like a knife through her heart. She looked away again, turning her head to check on Sam’s whereabouts, but more words were already bubbling to the surface. “If only you did, then it wouldn’t be such a cause for concern now, when there’s already so much to deal with.”

She could sense the frustration rolling off his body like the undulating waves of the Blackwater, drawing closer after each tide, but never quite reaching her. How Sansa used to stand at the edge of the shore and watch the horizon for hours and hours on end, praying for a ship with a direwolf sigil against its sails, trying to ignore the discomfort that the healing scars and bruises affected. She had to remind herself that the blood of wolves coursed through her veins, that a couple of beatings could never break down her walls, no matter the lions that roared just outside its perimeters.

She was preparing herself for Jon’s verbal revolt, or, at the very worst, his declaration of what she already knew, of what she had accepted with a shattered heart. It never came.

“Do you remember when I came back from the South?” He asked, still towering above her.

“Not really,” she lied.

There was a brief pause until she heard Jon sigh quietly. When she caught his intertwined hands in the corner of her eye, she knew he’d returned to his seat.

“I do,” he confessed, his voice thick. “I’m sure I remember every moment of it.”

Sansa didn’t say anything. Little Sam was switching his attention between Ghost and herself; hoping to win him over, she offered him another colorful block, shaking it before his face, even while there was no rattling noise to accompany the action. The child was taken aback by the object, his green eyes wide with wonder, despite the fact that were blocks scattered all around him as well, his little fingers digging into hers as he pried the block from her. She studied the boy intently, as if all his movements and expressions were new to her. If Jon was affected by her ignorance, he made no mention of it.

“There was a messenger who approached me while we were riding past Castle Cerywn along the Kingsroad,” he recounted, reaching forward to retrieve the rattle that Little Sam had ungallantly thrown away. “He told me there was a party from Winterfell waiting to accompany us at the crossroad, but he never said who the group was made up of. The thing was, he didn’t have to—I already knew you were going to be one of them. That made me happier than I thought I could ever be, but when I think back on it now, it doesn’t seem so strange, after all.”  

“Why not?”

There was such a long pause that Sansa couldn’t help but turn back towards him. It was a grave mistake; she ended up staring straight into his gray eyes, familiar and full of intense yearning, just as he longed to remember them.

“I missed you so much,” he confessed, as soft and quiet as a hare roaming soundlessly in the snow. “All I ever wanted was to see you again, Sansa,” he insisted, clutching the rattle tightly in his hands. The words were meant for her ears only, she realized, where innocents like Little Sam nor familiars like Ghost were privy to that, even when they didn’t have the capacity to understand what Jon had spoken aloud.

Fear began to well up inside of her, drowning out all sensations and noise. _Please don’t do this_ , she begged silently, clenching her own teeth to prevent herself from saying the words out loud. Jon had made his choice long before he’d taken his Dragon Queen to bed, long before he brought her back with him to Winterfell, the two of them riding together side-by-side, while Sansa watched across the field, eyes boring into the scene that played out before her as she realized with a sinking heart how true the stories might actually be.

“Sometimes I thought I’d forgotten the way you look because I’d been away from you for so long,” he pressed on, oblivious to the chaotic state her mind was in. “And then I reached King’s Landing for the first time, not knowing what to expect, other than the things you told me about. And everywhere I looked, I saw you.”

“Suppose I wasn’t worth a place in your memories before that,” she muttered, unable to hold her tongue any longer. It was the only way she knew how to protect herself from his words, angry that he was telling her all this now. What did he hope to gain from this? What game was Jon playing with her?

The air shifted. Even without looking she could feel him tensing up. “I _never_ forgot you,” he said, the words enunciated like a hammer coming down, swung using the strength of his conviction. “Even when I wanted to, you were always on my mind.”

Sansa wanted to prove him wrong with every fibre of being, desperate to catch him in the middle of his lies he swore he would never tell her, a desire that pushed her towards the edge of confession. She knew that she was putting herself in a vulnerable position, a tapestry whose weaves were about to come apart, intricate pieces of thread frayed and destroyed. She didn’t want to care, anymore. Besides, when was victory ever achieved without a few sacrifices?

Her heart was racing painfully in her chest when she finally lifted her head, mindful of all the emotions that threatened to reveal themselves on her face. It turned out that she had miscalculated the distance between them, had not realized that he was within arm’s reach, but the fact did little to weaken her resolve.

“I was never on your mind while you were at Dragonstone, was I?”

Jon’s reaction wasn’t exactly what she had envisioned, but it was enough. There was no denying the guilt that blossomed on his face, the way his features melted just as he turned his head to the side to avoid the hurt and betrayal she knew shone bright in her blue eyes. Sansa didn’t even have to be explicit; they knew exactly what she meant.

“Theon was probably right,” she concluded. “Maybe…maybe it _was_ all inevitable. There are some connections you just can’t deny, like forces that are meant to collide and meld.” She broke into a sad smile, despite herself. “Everyone must’ve known the moment they saw the both of you.”

 _But nobody knows about us_ , she thought. Nobody except Theon, perhaps, but she’d never confessed anything outright. There was Littlefinger; he had known. But he was dead, just before he had any opportunity to use what he knew against either of them. Was it wrong to wish he were still alive, in times like this? Baelish would’ve had something to say, at the least. It was easier to harden her heart to everything while he had still been alive.

“Sansa,” Jon pleaded, but she refused to face him again. She always found it strange nowadays when he said her name aloud, so seldom was it uttered. _I am the Lady of Winterfell_ , she reminded herself, hoping that the title would act like a talisman that could magically forge the walls she needed garrisoned around her. Not just from Jon, though, but from everyone.   

“I need you to hear me,” Jon pressed, his voice taut with emotion that was barely bridled. “Listen to me, _please_. I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone. The things that happened…I won’t deny them. I won’t disrespect you by lying, Sansa. You deserve to know the truth, if that’s what you want.”

Her hands were shaking now. Sansa wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the truth, wasn’t sure if she had it in her to listen to him while he confessed the things she had already imagined behind her eyelids, anyway. _It’s all irrelevant, besides_ , she persuaded herself, ready to cling to anything that might keep her heart and her sanity in tact. Yes, it _was_ irrelevant, in the end. Love, she learned, was a privilege, never a right. She had been in the wrong when she let herself indulge in such a state, even if she had stumbled upon it by accident.

But it wasn’t enough. Over and over the question turned in her mind, as never-ending as a boulder rolling down a mountainous hill. _Did you ever love me as much as I loved you?_

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she protested. Sansa had just realized how exhausted she was, that their conversation was more trying than she could’ve imagined. She didn’t even think it would ever come to this, not while his mind was tied up with the war effort and his body belonging to his Dragon Queen, and yet here they were, two ships that had somehow reunited in the midst of a wild storm. “What’s done is done.”

“I shouldn’t have left you the way I did,” he admitted, eyes downcast. “If there had been any way, I wouldn’t have left you at all.”

With his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, it was a rare show of vulnerability and exhaustion that reminded her of the fact that, despite his resurrection at the hands of the Red Lady, he was still irrevocably human. Jon was just as mortal as everyone else was. He was at risk of making the same mistakes, subject to suffer through the same highs and lows. Jon was no different than she was.

Sansa sighed quietly to herself. “You went south because you had to,” she said with a tone of resignation. “And I’m glad you did, because it turned out to be the right thing to do, after all.”

He didn’t respond, but she saw a smile hovering against his mouth, much to her consternation and delight. It warmed her more than she liked, seeing him when he was anything less than somber, especially when there was so little to be happy about these days.

“What is it?”

“I think that’s the closest you’ve ever been to admitting you’re proud of me.”

Sansa frowned. “That isn’t true,” she said, scoffing indignantly, all while trying to recall any particular memory that she could use to prove him wrong. It was to her misfortune that she came up blank.

“All right, so I may not have said it in so many words,” she conceded, “but I’m _sure_ I’ve told so, once or twice.”

Rather than retaliate, his smile grew wider. Lifting his head to look up at her again, Sansa caught the hint of mirth present in his eyes, that which indicated his amusement rather than any offense to her comment, and it took most of her will-power to keep her own face from wavering into a smile.

“You’re not the only one who’s guilty, though,” he pointed out. His smile wavered a bit. “I’ve never told you how proud I am of you, either.

She shrugged, but there was no ignoring the warmth that spread through her. “There were more important matters at hand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he protested. “The North has you to thank for its independence, not me. If you hadn’t been so determined to take back Winterfell, who knows where any of us would be?”

“Where, indeed?” She questioned. Her head swam with all the duties and responsibilities associated with her title; everything was made heavier by the emotional turmoil she’d been suffering through for so long now. Jon’s smile—even the smallest one—was nearly enough to dismantle the sorrows he’d caused the moment she saw him riding alongside Daenerys Targaryen from across the field, their banners waving relentlessly behind them. Sansa never wanted anyone to leave her so unhinged, not even Jon, whom she had loved with such fervor that she was left breathless just thinking about it. There was no denying the spark of happiness she felt when he had told her how proud he was, but Sansa also couldn’t deny the feeling that, perhaps, his praise might have come too late. What use was there for it, when she was still alone? 

There was no anticipating what Jon did next, deep as she was in her thoughts—his movements, careful as they were, still contained a spontaneous air to it that took her by utter surprise. Sansa felt the pads of his callused fingers ghosting along the side of her cheek as he pushed strands of her hair away from her face, looping them over the shell of her ear tenderly, the act as familiar and intimate as he had once performed it while they had lain together, each as naked as the day they were born.  

“ _Don’t_ ,” she ordered, as soon as she realized what he’d done. “Don’t ever do that again,” she warned, her voice only slightly above a whisper, because it was all she could manage under the circumstances.

Jon went as still as a statue. As soon as he appeared able, he drew back slowly, remorsefully, but she refused meet his gaze after that. How such a simple act could feel like a betrayal, she knew not, but it did. It did.

Both of them were startled by the sound of the door slamming shut, jolting them out of the world they had built around themselves. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever been as grateful to Maester Tarly as she was when he appeared before them, looking every bit as disheveled and endearing as ever, but a welcoming sight regardless.

Sansa rose from the floor with Little Sam gathered protectively in her arms, never once looking at Jon.

**Author’s Notes:** Okay, you don’t have to remind me how real the delay was, even though y’all deserve to. But, like, this chapter was _insanely_ hard to write. Just, like, crazy insane—I felt like I was climbing a mountain. Here it is though, the longest chapter I’ve ever written for any of my Jonsa stories (excluding the rough drafts for _Set If Off_ , but that’s something else). If you’ve made it this far, I just want to say thank you so, so much for reading; comments and feedback are the gasoline that keeps my car going. And by car, I mean motivation. And by motivation, I mean it takes approximately six bowls of quality ramen until I find the inspiration to write. I don’t know where I was going with that. Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://mon-blanchetts.tumblr.com), yeah?

Random trivia time: Before I titled it _Thieves Among Us_ at the very last moment, this story was originally called _Winning means losing, so let’s go until the end_. I’m telling you this because half the drafts for this story in my WriterP are still named that, which makes it hard to find the draft I’m working on for the story that’s actually called _Winning means losing_. It sucks balls.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to alittlestardustcaught for beta reading!

 

 

_We used to play in the godswood together when we were children, me and you and Robb and Theon. You remember that, don’t you?_

 

Jon stared at the ancient face carved into the heart tree. That was what Sansa had asked him when they had been in the broken tower, when the tension in that small room had been thick enough to taste on his tongue. There she was, looking out towards the godswood with her back facing him, her body a tense line, her voice soft and wistful. It wasn’t enough to fool him—Jon knew that she was barely holding herself together, but he couldn’t undo what had been done. Worse, he didn’t what she was referring to—not then, not now. It rang true, was the thing, authentic, and yet for the life of him he couldn’t conjure any memory whatsoever to fit with her words. All those moons ago, Jon had assumed that he’d been too wrapped up in his intentions to think about anything else other than what he had to do, what he had to _end_ , but lately his perceptions had altered. More and more, he realized that there were other things he couldn’t remember, a dark space in his consciousness where something ought to have been, but no longer was. It left him feeling unsettled and out-of-touch, but he had yet to mention it to anybody. Jon wanted to change that.

 

The winds were biting this afternoon, moving all around him in a way he thought somewhat uninviting. Despite all the layers he wore beneath his cloak, Jon never felt warm, whether he was inside or out. It wasn’t a bad thing to lament over—at least it kept him alert, sharp. Warmth lulled him to sleep, wrapped him with a false sense of hope and security. Not a soul on either continent was in a place to think that, him least of all.

 

“Still praying to the old gods, are you now?”

 

Beric Dondarrion’s voice was smooth like marble, a calming sound that seemed fitting for the place they stood in. Jon turned his back on the heart tree, taking in the man approaching him. “No more than I pray to all the other gods,” he replied.

 

“Don’t believe in any of them, you mean?” Lord Beric smirked. “Not even the Lord of Light, who brought you back to life? Who chose _you_ to be the Prince that was Promised?”

 

Jon huffed in response. That damned prophecy, not to mention that damned title—why did he have to be part of it all? He was a survivor, first and foremost; all he could hope for was to see the world he knew make it through whatever was coming for all of them, but Jon knew he wasn’t the only one who believed _that_. The Red Witch was entirely at fault for this, and for that he was even more exasperated with her. Where she had disappeared to after she’d been given a private audience with Dany remained a mystery, but there was not a doubt in his mind she would find ways to stir up trouble wherever she was.

 

“Maybe I don’t know what I believe in anymore,” he said, turning to the heart tree again. He tried to ignore the way his stomach throbbed to life again, just as it had when he woke this morn. “What I _do_ know is that I’m here—I’m alive, and now there’s an undead army of thousands, maybe more, marching towards us…yet here _I_ am, trying to convince myself and everyone around me that we can defeat them.” Jon knew it was the worst thing to say, but doing so had been strangely comforting. Remedial, almost, seeing as he’d wanted to let it out for ages.

 

Behind him, Beric Dondarrion said nothing. Strange to think that this was likely the first instance they were making conversation, despite the fact that they had journeyed beyond the Wall together in order to gather proof of the Night King’s army of the Dead. A white walker had dealt him a near-fatal blow to his stomach when that horde of wights had ambushed his party, a stab wound that had gone deep. Even now, Jon could remember with vivid clarity how it felt, as if the blood in his veins had turned to ice while the enemy’s spear was lodged in his flesh—but there was something else to it as well, something that he didn’t have the chance to reflect on until he’d reached the safety of the Wall. Jon couldn’t explain it, but in that moment he felt as if he had lost a part of him, as if the white walker had ripped something vital out of him when it had pulled its spear back.

 

Jon glanced over his shoulder. Lord Beric was studying the red leaves above him with his exposed eye, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had seen the man fight and drink and laugh, all the things that the living did, but there was always a haunted look in his eye that never went away, an emptiness that came through his voice no matter what he was saying. A shell of a man. That was what Beric Dondarrion was.

 

“When was the last time you set foot in the godswood, Lord Beric?”

 

The man snorted. “Barely even went to my own, back before everything went to shit.” He looked around, as if he was expecting someone else to be with them. “The people at the castle like to talk quite a bit. A fellow died here, no? That’s a travesty, in a sanctuary like this.”

 

Jon nodded. “So the story goes. They found the corpse lying about, but there isn’t anyone who can explain what happened, not even the maesters.”

 

“Was the man someone of importance?”

 

“That depends who you ask,” he said, unable to hide the smirk that formed on his mouth. He turned his gaze down at the snowy ground beneath his feet. Jon tried to imagined the corpse lying before him, facedown in the snow just like Maester Payton and others had described. The body had been given to the flames shortly after the discovery, just like he’d ordered of every corpse in their midst. Sansa had seen to that.

 

Beric Dondarrion cocked his head. “From the sound of it, you weren’t too taken by him. Am I right?”

 

“Petyr Baelish was Lady Sansa’s guest, not mine,” he said, his voice hard, unforgiving. “I’ve a feeling there aren’t a great many who miss him, but I could be wrong.” Sansa’s face flashed through his mind and his wound throbbed with more fervor than before. She had written to him personally about the whole thing, a detached, sterile piece that arrived at Dragonstone by raven. _Littlefinger is dead, his body found in the godswood, but nobody knows how he got there or what happened to him. We’ve burned the body. Squabbles have begun over his legacy._ If she had experienced any grief of loss, it was completely missing in her letter.

 

“One less corpse for the Night King to get his fucking hands on, that’s how I see it,” Lord Beric mused. He looked Jon straight in the eye. “Why did you ask for me, Your Grace?”

 

It was a last resort, but Jon felt that someone who’d been through the same experience might understand. Was his predicament truly his own?

 

“There are things I can’t remember,” he said, his eyes still focused on the face of the heart tree. “It’s just…at first, I thought it was only things that happened a long, long time ago, but now I’m realizing that there are more gaps in my memory, things that people discuss of recent that I can’t recall at all.” He let out a sigh, his breath floating before him.

 

When Jon glanced at Lord Beric, his expression was unreadable. His stomach knotted inside him. Jon didn’t know what the man was thinking, wasn’t sure if he understood. Suddenly he felt foolish about the whole thing, angry at himself for requesting his presence here, a man he didn’t really know about.

 

“You don’t get to come back the same,” Lord Beric said, upending the silence between them. “You forget things that happened in your life, and there’s no picking and choosing the memories that disappear. Those lost memories, though—you’ll never know how meaningful they were, anyway. You could say it’s a small mercy.”

 

“That’s no mercy,” Jon protested. He wasn’t sure why, but he was oddly affronted by the man’s comment. He felt swindled, incomplete.

 

Lord Beric lifted an eyebrow. “Isn’t it? Those memories you say you can’t remember—they could have all been bad ones, something sad or tragic. That’s not a terrible thing to have away with.”

 

Jon scoffed. “I doubt the Lord of Light is benevolent enough to allow something as convenient as that.” He thought about what Sansa had made mention of in the broken tower. She had shrugged it off as soon as she realized that he didn’t know what she was talking about—she’d shrugged _him_ off shortly after, but that hadn’t been a surprise at all—but her disappointment was discernible in that small chamber built high above the keep. Why had she brought up something that happened so long ago? Was it all to fill that ugly silence that pressed down on them while she came to terms with what he was doing, or was there more significance to it?

 

“I thought you weren’t keen to believe in the Lord of Light,” his companion pointed out, tilting his head to the side to scratch beneath his chin. Jon said nothing.

 

“Look at it the way a scale works. The Lord of Light puts you on one side, but there’s nothing else to put on the other side to make it balance. A life is owed, yours, but something has to give for you to come back. So a compromise is made. You get to come back, I get to come back, but we’re not the same people we used to be. Every course of action has a consequence.”

 

Jon tried to swallow what Lord Beric had said “How much have _you_ forgotten?”

 

His companion shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. Sometimes I do things I find myself questioning afterwards and wonder if it’s because it’s to do with who I was before. Besides,” he reached forward to touch the heart tree, almost reverently, “how do you know what’s lost to you if you didn’t have any knowledge about it in the first place?”

 

An image of Sansa, splayed out beneath him, naked, her auburn hair spread over the pillow, her head tilted back in ecstasy to expose her beautiful throat. A better man wouldn’t have done what he did with her, despite Littlefinger’s own beliefs. _It’s easy to fall in love with her, your sister, but even easier to fall in lust with. Any man able to withstand charms like hers might not be much of a man at all._ Jon hadn’t been out to satisfy his lust, not while he’d been inside Sansa. He just wanted to help her forget, just like she had asked. _Give me back a piece of home I’ve lost, Jon. Give me something to get lost in._ A part of him knew that they were doing something wrong, filthy, but it had been too easy to push that away, too easy to forget the sanctity of their blood relations. And yet, Jon had taken Sansa to bed because he loved her. Perhaps it was that love that had become twisted when he had been brought back. Telling her he regretted it all when he didn’t had been a means to protect both of them, but it had ended up destroying what precious bond that they had forged, a bond that he realized could never be replicated or mended.

 

He thought of all the people he placed his confidence in, Sam and Ser Davos and Tormund. Jon thought about Dany and the ironies that the gods enjoyed heaping on him. He had known her for such a short period of time, and yet the history they shared was probably enough to span an entire lifetime. War had the ability to make time stretch when it saw fit; it was no wonder that one experience felt like it happened ages ago. He had questioned his connection with Sansa based off what he thought he knew—he had questioned his connection with Dany because of what he _didn’t_. Were all of his follies also the work of the same god?

 

“What goes through your mind, Your Grace?”

 

Jon blinked once, twice. He looked at Lord Beric. “Nothing worth voicing out loud,” he said, offering the man a tight smile. The leaves rustled above their heads while the wind wailed, a sorrowful sound that seemed to go straight to his heart.

 

“I’ll stay here then, if you’re finished with me,” his companion said, glancing at his surroundings. “Not a bad place after all, this.”

 

Jon left Lord Beric on his own. His wound was throbbing again, but he ignored it. A small worry had been accounted for, but it hadn’t been lifted, not really. His sporadic bouts of amnesia still weighed him down along with the rest of his troubles, but it was a small comfort knowing that he wasn’t suffering alone. He didn’t think he agreed with Lord Beric’s philosophies, but he had none to offer, either.

_Every course of action has a consequence._ That part was certainly true. There would have been consequences, severe ones, if he and Sansa hadn’t ended what it was they had, despite his own desires, despite hers. Littlefinger had veered too close to the truth, and Jon wasn’t sure how far the man would’ve gone with his suspicions, who else he would have passed them to. What if his lords had got wind of what he’d been doing with Sansa? His stomach twisted almost painfully from the thought. The King in the North, fucking his own sister. That’s how they would’ve all viewed it. Neither of them would have been able to hide behind the Stark name then. They would have been as corrupt as the Lannisters, as mad as the Targaryens, not a bit different than their enemies. What defense could either of them stand on, had their transgressions come to light? Would Sansa have wanted him then, knowing that he’d been an accomplice in her downfall?

 

He almost didn’t notice the entrance of the crypts, nearly passing it entirely, but he stopped in his tracks. The last time he had been there, he’d looked to Ned Stark’s effigy for guidance and strength; Jon had merely glanced at the statue of Lyanna Stark without giving it any thought whatsoever. There wasn’t a reason to pause and reflect, nothing to linger on. Lyanna Stark had been a tragic figure, no doubt, but her presence had been muted in favor of the battles and victories he and his brothers were more interested in. If only he’d known differently. If only Ned had said something. He had promised though, hadn’t he? His uncle had promised to discuss more about it when he came back from King’s Landing, but how much would he have let on?

 

Again and again, he dreamt of her. It was the same thing every time; always she would appear before him as a child, dressed in Stark gray, her eyes full of wisdom that wasn’t natural for her age. They both partook in that same game of hide-and-seek, that which he always lost because then Sansa would appear, always Sansa, completely oblivious to their presence, pulling out that casket from underneath her bed, its design so simple and nondescript that he couldn’t even begin to figure out what lay inside. It eluded him each time, its contents, despite the fact that he was always trying to see, always waiting for her to lift open the lid while Lyanna giggled behind the drawn curtains. Whenever he got close to finally satisfying his curiosity, darkness took hold of him and he found himself back in his own bed, frustrated and confused. Of all the things to grow mad about, it was being thwarted by his desires in a dream.

 

A raven squawked somewhere behind him, shaking him out of his contemplations. He looked up, but only overcast skies looked back at him. Gray, like the colour of his mother’s dress when he dreamt of her, like the colour of his eyes. The colour of Sansa’s gowns.

 

Something dawned on him. He hated looking back on their last conversation, considering the way he had ruined what could have well been his best chance at reconciliation, but he couldn’t ignore it any further. Sansa was hiding something. He had his suspicious even before that, but for the first time, Jon realized that she was keeping something from _him._ It was in the way she avoided him, the closed-off way she spoke with him when they happened to be alone. Jon thought her behaviour was in response to everything he had done wrong in her eyes, but something still didn’t sit right with him.

 

His wound was throbbing more strongly now, making it hurt when his stomach rose while he inhaled, and he wondered if it was going to re-open again, like it usually did. Sam would be as furious as he would be perplexed, but Jon couldn’t blame him for his reactions. Something wasn’t right about this injury; it was disquieting, to say the least, but not as disquieting as the thought that Sansa was hiding something from him. _What_ was she hiding?

 

Jon walked on, leaving the crypts behind him. As badly as he wanted to know, how would he ever find out? Not from Sansa, unfortunately. His heart constricted when he remembered how she stared at him coldly at the feast held the night before he had traveled to the Gift, together with Dany. Sansa didn’t attend the banquet that had been held after the feast; his eyes had been searching her out the whole time, until an observant attendant informed him that Lady Sansa had chosen to retire instead. No, Sansa wouldn’t tell him anything, even if he demanded it of her. If he really wanted to know what she was keeping from him, he’d have to find out through other means.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn’t mean to be here, not alone. Not without Sansa’s permission. Her bedchamber was her private sanctuary and he knew he was intruding upon it, but the moment he’d made the decision to slip through the space left by the open door, Jon knew that there was no going back on his intentions.

 

Nothing had changed since he was last here; all of the furniture was still arranged in the same spot, tilted at the same angles. Everything looked as it should be. So why couldn’t he shake off the feeling that a great change had taken place? Why did something feel wrong in the air?

 

Jon always remembered how warm it was in her bedchamber, even when there wasn’t a fire blazing inside the hearth; but he was always cold now, even here. He hadn’t come back beyond the Wall right, he realized more often than not. The fact that he felt no warmth, not to mention that damned wound on his abdomen that refused to heal properly, were the most obvious signs. He was afraid to learn what else might be wrong with him, what other thing might wear his resolve down just a little more.

 

But, gods, he used to feel so warm in here. Jon was always warm when he had clung to Sansa like she was air—her hot, bare skin pressed tightly against his while he moved inside her to a rhythm that was exclusively theirs. And Sansa, achingly sweet and achingly beautiful, would match him with every thrust, chanting his name over and over and over again, an erotic hymn that brought about the most divine moment he had ever experienced. Jon screwed his eyes shut and drew in a shuddering breath, hoping to disarm the images that were shoving themselves to the forefront of his mind, but that only made things worse. More images flashed by with startling clarity: the curve of Sansa’s hips beneath his fingers, gripped so tightly for purchase that there would no doubt be a patch of bruises the next day—the little gasp that always came from her swollen lips just before her crisis washed over as reverently as his own did just a few beats later.

 

Jon knew that his mind was playing games with him, no longer a faculty he had as much faith in these days, but he could’ve sworn that he could smell vestiges of their sexual transgressions, thick and heady, so potent that it made his head swim. But there was something else lingering in the air, too; even though everything looked fine, he was positive that he could grasp the metallic tang of blood. The realization served to remind him again why he had chosen to come here in the first place. He’d been dreaming that same dream night after night—dreaming of Sansa so often, of that casket she always pulled from beneath her bed—that he began to wonder if there was any truth behind it. The idea was ridiculous; the chances that Sansa actually had a casket that she hid in her bedchamber seemed slim to none, but Jon could never extinguish the possibility completely.  

 

He could feel his heart hammering against his chest; Jon reached out towards one of the bedposts to steady himself, confused by the sudden terror that gripped him. What was there to be so scared about? So what if he did find something beneath Sansa’s bed—what if he _did_ find the casket he had seen in his dream? What would she possible have in there that was worth mulling over to this extent? Jon didn’t have the right to be here; he didn’t have the right to any information that Sansa decided she wanted to keep to herself. Should that include the things that he might be involved with?

_What are you hiding from me, Sansa?_

 

The silence in the room rang in his ears in a way he didn’t think possible; he felt as if his heart was trying to escape from his chest. Desperate to quell the panic that was growing, Jon walked to the side of the bed that Sansa always stood in his dream before he sank to his hands and knees, the cold floor against his palms sending a jolt through his body.

 

He ducked his head beneath the bed frame. _Everything was just a dream. Only a dream, and nothing more._

 

There was nothing.

 

 

 

**AN:** If you got this far, I just want to say thank you for sticking it out with me. I don’t know how interesting this story is now that Season 7 has aired, but it’s where I’m getting all the inspiration to write, and I’m going to ride that high until it wears out, which I hope isn’t soon, because I do want to finish this story, bloody hard as it is. I also want everyone to know that the light is coming; things do better. Again, thank you so much for reading; your feedback and comments are the absolute best a writer can hope for!


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